As a high school student in the late aughts, I’m realizing that the celebrity death that most shaped my experience was Bradley Nowell. Sure, Kurt Cobain’s reach and influence (as well as accepted quality) were higher, but Sublime managed to be more omnipresent on a level I saw as local. As a Southern California kid, it’s harder to discuss relationships that didn’t cross through the pioneers of dub rock at some point. Everyone had their own story. They had at least heard “Santeria” and “Badfish.” I could forgive those outside the county for being clueless, but that’s also because I assumed they were niche beyond compare, so intertwined with Long Beach that their artwork was obligated to mention it.
Then again, their story would make any up-and-coming rock band mythic. I would’ve been seven when Nowell died from a heroin overdose. Let’s just say my parents weren't “liberal” enough to let me listen to their music, which, at the time, featured a bilingual song about getting oral sex from a hooker. They sang of the Rodney King Riots, and even tamer works like “Santeria” still involved a violent revenge. They may have been part of the community, but they were on the side that was concurrently giving us Snoop Dogg and Zack De La Rocha. I like to think of The LBC as where the art kids of L.A. County were from… the type who experimented in a “found their voice in college dorm rooms” type of way.
Nowell was very much that type of eccentric. Without making this an overt tribute to the man, I’ll just say that attempts for Sublime to move on since 1996 have largely failed because he was the essence of Sublime. Much like how Krist Novoselic and Dave Grohl with Nirvana lucked out by Cobain’s presence, so did Eric Wilson and Bud Gaugh with Sublime. To give them some credit, I will say that Wilson has some phenomenal bass work throughout the limited catalog and, even in 2026, still finds a few riffs that make me smile. However, you listen to “40 oz. to Freedom,” and you discover the value of a singular performer who “gets it.” He’s not just mixing reggae with punk and hip-hop. He’s embodying this personality of a storyteller detailing his life along the coast while stoned out of his mind. He’s shameless both subject-wise and in his ability to inflect humor and surreality at different points. The fact that he also made some sincere, laid-back surf ballads like “Badfish” only showed the versatility that the band was working with. Even if you didn’t care for their style, it felt methodical by design and, if nothing else, could be appreciated as creatively curious for the 1990s.
Unlike the supporting players of Nirvana, there wasn’t that second-act hit for Sublime, or at least one on par with The Foo Fighters. Sure, they had Long Beach Short Bus and Long Beach Dub All Stars, but could you say they’d fit on a KROQ concert bill and draw a similar crowd? It makes sense why they eventually tried branding with the much-maligned Sublime with Rome moniker. Even so, it was widely acknowledged that their singer was, at best, a fan of their back catalog. Nobody could capture Nowell’s charisma and, quite frankly, bands influenced by them at the time, specifically Pepper, were having more enthusiasm thrown behind them.
As someone alive in the immediate decade following his passing, I have long been a skeptic of Sublime ever existing in a “serious” way. Maybe a cover band could scratch the itch, but I avoided Sublime with Rome like the plague. It had bad juju all over it, and I always worried that this was going to fail as disastrously as Linkin Park after the loss of Chester Bennington. They could sensibly do so, but you will notice that loss to the point you might as well go by a new name. Then again, I’d argue that Grohl’s tribute to Nirvana by having an all-female cast of singers is at least keeping in the spirit of Cobain’s rebelliousness - which is to say that some people, be they Nowell or Bennington, are just never going to be replaced.
That is all to say that I have been VERY hesitant to give the latest Sublime rebrand a fair shake. It speaks more to the endless franchising of pop culture, but something felt wrong about the discourse highlighting how Nowell’s son, Jakob, was the spitting image, that he somehow carried the essence of his father to the point of imitation. It’s not terrible to want a taste of the glory days, but I’m on the side of thinking that most acts replaced by progeny are doing their child a disservice by not letting them form their own voices.
And that opinion remained until I sucked it up and finally listened to their first proper album in 30 years, “Until the Sun Explodes.” Given how it appropriates the band’s most iconic album cover, I was nervous that this was yet another legacy tribute favoring impulse over reputation. I’ve largely been able to skip the main single, “Ensenada,” whenever it’s been on the radio, so pressing play allowed me to go in fresh, hoping that some part of me was wrong. After all, what does Jakob Nowell have in common with a backing band that is almost twice his age?
There are probably thousands of people who would be more likely to get sentimental for a new Sublime album of this kind. I am, at best, a casual fan, and yet I’m protective of their legacy because of their ubiquity with Long Beach. Their presence in the culture means a lot to me, and, in one of the stranger recent occurrences of my life, I learned midway through a creative writing class that the professor had previously taught Jakob, meaning that we shared an alumni status. Of course, the band has many ties to Cal State Long Beach, but that’s only adding fuel to an unnecessarily large fire.
I recognize this essay is less a critique of “Until the Sun Explodes” than a question of whether Sublime is relevant in 2026, but I promise this is important to understand. The legacy precedes this record, and it’s doubtful that Jakob could’ve gotten away with this if he weren’t truly passionate about his father’s achievements. There had to be a reason this had to be made.
To get the biggest concern out of the way, it’s that Sublime’s attachment to recreational abuse of sex, drugs and alcohol remains prevalent. I recognize that it’s part of the dub rock style to be laid back and carefree, but it also took me a minute to see the material in a light that wasn’t accidentally dark. Jakob may have been tapping into his father’s interests for inspiration and to understand a deeper bond they shared through music, but the lead single features a reference to “If I were the president/I’d hire 20 strippers for my cabinet.” Sure, it’s funny and classic Sublime lyrically, but it also made me worry that Jakob was essentially copping to a level of hedonism that didn’t end well for his dad, who died not long into his life.
At the same time, I’m not sure that I would expect this band to get mushy. Their music was always about celebrating the intersection of the SoCal music scenes and highlighting a life of skaters, stoners, and surfers. They were supposed to be at parties getting high and picking up chicks. This was a world of indulgence, where it’s not out of place for Jakob to question whether he’s more intoxicated with his eyes closed. This is as much a throwback to the rock club aesthetic that has been slowly demolished as it is attempting to understand the essence of a band that never got to move beyond a major label debut.
Something clicked for me midway through the record. I was nervous about Jakob becoming his father less because he lacked the skill, and more because it meant he was only ever doing a pastiche of somebody else. There’s evident talent in his vocal range, and he carries the winking playfulness that makes the sunbaked tracks land smoothly. However, I feared that this would be his life, going from a genuine exploration of a shared history to mere exploitation of horny, smoky jams. Would they be good? If they’re as hot as “Until the Sun Explodes,” I would say yes. However, he would never be more than the Sublime kid. Some people would be fine with that, but I still struggle to think there’s a shared perspective across the generations of living musicians here.
While bopping along to the music, I found myself doing research. Immediately, one detail grabbed me that altered my complete perception. Jakob, quite intelligently, suggested this was an epilogue, the only record he would ever do for Sublime. This was enough to veer me out of the skepticism camp and directly into the emotional one. I can’t speak to how much the absence informs his everyday life, but given how much Nowell meant to me a decade after his passing, I imagine it carries more weight when you’re surrounded by fans and constant radio play. There is intention and catharsis now in trying to make a Sublime record that would complement the former incarnation. Sure, it’s “more of the same” in a sense, but if imitation is the best form of flattery, this is the most poetic love note a musician could give.
Because of this, the conversation becomes clearer. The pastiche fades and, in its place, is a community coming together to recognize the past and build a bridge into the future. This is a record that features collaborations with Pennywise and H.R. of Bad Brains. There’s recognition of legacy here that comes through in its use of audio samples as well as throwback clips on the “Maybe Partying Will Help…” trilogy that serves as an audible reflection of days long gone, when the world seemed more infinite and the day more flexible. It’s the only place outside of the closer, “Thanx Again,” where the curtain feels pulled back and Jakob is revealing how much he needed for creative pursuit and closure.
In some way, the irony of “Until the Sun Explodes,” from my end, is that I am too old to have this record hit in the same way. Not because of its quality, but because the Sublime that I forged decades-long friendships around owes more to what came before. It’s doubtful that I’ll sit there and talk about how trippy “Gangstalker” is, or how the instrumentation can be pretty damn sharp here. Sure, it sounds like novelty at points if you’ve listened to “40 oz. to Freedom” 40 too many times (raises hand), but I am now convinced that Jakob is coming from a place worthy of this record existing. I’m confident he believes that he’ll never outshine his father's Sublime. In some way, his only goal here was to answer how much of his spirit is still alive in him.
And that’s why I may be giving this a few more spins. Again, I’m doubtful that this will be a masterpiece for all time, but it far exceeds the nature of legacy acts who are still churning out new releases for no discernible reason (to stay on the Long Beach kick, Snoop Dogg is a BIG offender). There’s no embarrassment with pressing play and hearing a vocalist who is merely copying what came before. Sure, it still feels like driving your VW minivan along the coast while chilling to some fresh tunes, but this is still a shameless SoCal record that pops off. It may be too rooted in the past to ever feel totally innovative, but for once, I feel like that’s fine. This is, as Jakob would say, an epilogue, a reflection on what came before. As much as I could be bothered that it’s still about being a drunken mess, there’s more to the story than tragedy. It’s a triumph or, more specifically, an excuse to party your ass off. Now that’s something Bradley Nowell would’ve approved.
Comments
Post a Comment