Okay I Believe You, But

The Song

Like so many songs, I wish I could revisit the exact moment I first heard Brand New’s “Okay I Believe You But My Tommy Gun Don’t.” 

First of all, what an incredible title. We always see memes about Fall Out Boy and Panic! At the Disco having ridiculously long titles, and somehow Jesse Lacey manages to escape the ridicule (on this topic, at least). The title opens questions that are never answered in the song. I’ve seen some theories on this song being slung around saying it means something along the lines of “she’s in love with him, but he doesn’t love her because he’s a liar” or that it’s about a breakup in general. 

Of course, the meaning of the title doesn’t really matter because the line itself comes from Home Alone 2 — that really aids a special air of nostalgia to the whole song, doesn’t it? (Especially when talking about it in 2023, even though Home Alone 2 was already a decade old by the time this song came out.)

Let’s say it’s 2003: you’re on limewire, downloading virus after virus to the family computer. Your friend recently told you to check out this cool emo band they found, so you give it a search, and you see that title. You can’t even read the full title, because it gets cut off, but you decide to click play anyways. You expect rock, you expect something heavy but emotional, you’re thinking “I’ve heard Take This To Your Grave, I know what emo music is like.” 

What you get instead is this steady, quiet, guitar riff and Jesse’s vocals coming in clear and clean. The angst is palpable, the depression, the anxiety, the god-complex: it’s all there in that minute-long intro of just guitar and vocals. And it’s breath-taking. It’s so simple, and so effective. Out of nowhere, it shifts, an added layer, still so simple, though. This isn’t about the instruments. This is about the words. And the words hurt. They burst with an indescribable pain and anger — “Hope you come down with something they can’t diagnose, don’t have the cure for.” 

And then the chorus. It’s almost like they thought “this is getting too dark, let’s liven up a bit.” But it’s not just a musical shift — it’s a manic shift. Instead of sadness, the god-complex of Jesse Lacey takes full, center stage. His confidence is off the charts, and the chorus hints that it may not be honest, but who can you believe? 

“Wouldn’t stop if I could. Oh, it hurts to be this good” followed by a cry to the heavens of “I just want to believe in us.” Are you the best at what you do or are you struggling to believe in yourself? Truly a war of head versus heart, an imposter syndrome felt by artists around the globe. It’s heartfelt and dark and moody. The song is a journey with no answers. You get caught up in the lyrics which are suddenly drowned out in the catchy chorus, dripping with angst and anger that is brushed aside for the sake of appearances. And a scream from Jesse, guttural and raw, dragging you to the end of the song. Out of nowhere, over five minutes have passed, and you’re left feeling like you’ve witnessed a miracle and a murder at the exact same time. 

Are you the best at what you do, Jesse, or are you struggling to believe in yourself? Okay, I believe you, but my tommy gun don’t. 

My Experience

This is one of those songs that has stuck with me for years. When I’m sad or angry or angsty, I can turn to it to embrace the emotions. And yet, when I’m feeling on top of the world, I can also relate to the words. As a (professional) writer, this juxtaposition of extreme confidence and crippling doubt are my only two modes of existence: I almost never feel “pretty good.” My imposter syndrome is forever rearing its head, and my only tools to combat it are pretending that I am the best at what I do. “These are the words you wish you wrote down” is a constant line in my brain that I imagine saying to the world, the h8rs, my editor, and my fellow writers. And yet, “I just wanna believe in us” is quietly whispered over and over and over again — an undercurrent of self doubt and insecurity, begging myself and the world to allow me to feel secure in my own work. 

This is an emotional situation Brand New captures often. Deja Entendu as a whole is something I often put on during the work day. On the one hand, it’s familiar — I know all the words, I know what to expect, I can feel it without it distracting me from my work. But, on the other hand, it serves as this friend, sitting in my speakers, reminding me that I am not alone in my struggles, reminding me that sometimes things just kinda suck but we keep trying anyways. 

I recently got this album on vinyl (some reissue on sale on some merch website) and every time I talk about it, I excitedly say “it’s somehow even sadder!” as if that’s the only selling point anyone needs. But truly, that stereotypical “warmth” that comes with listening to a record on vinyl is especially poignant when dealing with a deeply personal album like Deja Entendu and the warmth adds to the sadness. 

Sure, yes, it’s one of my “cry albums” that I put on when I need help pulling the emotion out — don’t worry, it’s something I’ve talked about with my therapist. But the album is incredibly inspiring, too. Most emo-band albums have this depth of emotion (yes, emotion, I get it) that encourage us to all be more open, more raw.