I have three tattoos. There’s a treeish thing on my calf that doesn’t really bother me, and another on my back so unmentionably bad it shall remain undescribed in any public forum as long as I draw breath. My favorite sits on my wrist: a cross made of four F’s — all dark lines, symmetry, and space. It’s the only one I have yet to regret. It is, of course, the Jawbreaker logo.
Jawbreaker have always been that kind of band. The kind of band whose lyrics you pore over, learn by heart, make your own. The kind of band you fall in love with slowly, only to watch that love morph into obsession, then comfortable familiarity over the years. The kind of band you get so nerdy about you almost feel embarrassed to admit it, until you finally break down and get a tattoo of their logo on your wrist/neck/chest/armpit (I’ve seen ‘em all, and plenty more). To quote one of the later songs, where singer/guitarist/bookish-cult-hero Blake Schwarzenbach sings about his awkward love of Zeppelin: “I felt ashamed. I knew every drum fill.” They’re that kind of band.