Their seventh full-length, Our Bande Apart, comes adorned with the usual trappings, and it often hinges on how much stomach you have for lyrics like “It’s just a demon road/But we have to go.” Jenkins is a man who sees constellations in the female anatomy he also remains weirdly obsessed with nautical expeditions. If Jenkins really believed his cock-rock to be the scion of Renaissance poetry, it at least made 3EB a far more interesting band than Marcy Playground. The triptych of 1997’s Third Eye Blind, 1999’s Blue, and 2003’s Out of the Vein is packed with such melodrama and so many gutsy melodies that all the coke and blowjobs sound downright Shakespearean. While their alt-rock peers hunched in the smirking self-deprecation of “ Sex and Candy,” he crafted arena-sized records that owed as much to glam rock as to the post-grunge canon. The same grandiosity that always made Jenkins an easy target, however, is also what set Third Eye Blind apart. Or was it ‘98? As weeks turn to months, he cycles through bandmates and session players, and the old howling question remains: How’s it gonna be when you don’t know me anymore? Show up, show up wounded.As tales of Stephan Jenkins’ overbearing demeanor, business chicanery, and outright creepiness have mounted, the Third Eye Blind mastermind has become something of a caricature: Who does this “ semi-charmed” guy think he is? It’s easy to imagine the 57-year-old songwriter walled away in a fortress like Phil Spector, tinkering with bridges and chord progressions, scrawling four-syllable adjectives on scratch paper and hastily striking them out, smiling in recollection of adoring crowds from the 2009 homecoming show at Skidmore. You say you dont know, you say here we go now, all I know is we're missing you.
You're a summertime hottie with her socks in the air, screaming I dont care baby I dont care, no. Lemme break it down till I force the issue you never come around and you know we miss you well nobody took your pride away I said, "That's something people say." Back down the bully to the back of the bus, 'cause it's time for them to be scared of us 'till you're yelling how we're living cause you got the ball and then you rock on, baby, rock on, you rock on. And the friends with you we should've known this fool well I guess we missed the mark, still my fingers catch the sparks at the thought of them touching you. Now it's fall and your shoulders get tighter nervous flicks on your lighter.boots your p_ed off poets your women's groups. You're an angel in the pit with her hands in the air and we're missing you.
Lemme break it down til I force the issue, we miss your face and you know I wish you would come back down to the Delva Bar and tell 'em, "Thats just my battle scar." I wanna kiss you, and knock 'em down like we used to you're a marigold 'till you're walking down shaking that a_ again, then you walk on, baby, walk on, you walk on. Well I never claimed to understand what happens after dark, but my fingers catch the sparks at the thought of touching you, When you're wounded.
Carrying that weight way too far, the concrete pulled you down so hard out there with the wounded. You used to speak so easy, now you're afaid to talk to me. And the bruises that you feel will heal and I hope you come around, cause we're missing you. The guy who put his hands on you, has got nothing to do with me.
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