It's the Apple podcast title. The Deep Dive,
unpacking DBS's Eyes for Insignificant, 1990s
punk rock and pop punk history, Apple podcast
description. Join us on this deep dive as we
unpack the 1998 punk rock staple Eyes for Insignificant
by Canadian band DBS. We explore the 13 -track
album's unique blend of melodic, hardcore, and
skate punk, its fascinating run on the Canadian
Top 50 chart attack, and the thematic depths
hidden within its rapid -fire 32 -minute runtime.
From sociopolitical anth - to the pivotal departure
of bassist Donnie Borges, we dissect the nuances
of this defining late 90s release, perfect for
music historians, the learner persona, and punk
enthusiasts looking to explore the roots of independent
music. Welcome to the Deep Dive. We are super
excited you could join us today because we have
a really fascinating historical artifact to dig
into. We really do. Yeah, so our mission today
is to take a highly specific, almost granular
slice of 1990s music history, specifically looking
at 1998 punk rock, and we're going to use the
Wikipedia data for an album called I Is For Insignificant
by the Canadian band DBS. Right, from North Vancouver.
Exactly. And we're basically going to extract
the rich hidden narrative right out of that raw
data. We're looking at its blend of melodic,
hardcore, skate punk. It's incredibly weird run
on the Canadian top 50 chart attack and the thematic
depth that's just packed into a super short runtime.
It's it's such an excellent candidate for this
kind of historical excavation, because when you
look at the raw data of a release like this,
you aren't just looking at an album. You're looking
at a snapshot of a very specific cultural moment.
I mean, it's 1998. The music industry is still
entirely dominated by physical media. No streaming
yet. Exactly. If you wanted to hear a band, you
had to physically go to a store and buy a CD
or, you know, borrow a cassette from a friend.
So this album is the third studio released by
DBS and it's released on a Canadian. independent
label called Sudden Death Records. But there's
another label, too, right? Yeah. The data specifically
credits empty records in Germany as well. Which
is wild. It is. So right away, the metadata is
showing us this local independent creation that
somehow managed to establish an international
footprint. I want to start just with the title
of the album itself, though, is for insignificant.
There's this deep. distinctly 90s irony there,
right? Like they named the album to explicitly
suggest that their work lacks significance. Yeah.
And yet the fact that we are sitting here pulling
so much cultural data from it proves the exact
opposite. It's that classic slacker era self
-deprecating armor. You see that a lot in 90s
alternative and punk subcultures. There was this
intense fear of taking yourself too seriously.
Or at least appearing to take yourself too seriously.
Oh, totally. Caring was deeply uncore. Exactly.
So calling your third studio album is for insignificant
is essentially a defense mechanism. If you declare
yourself insignificant first, you take the power
away from any music critic who might try to say
the same thing. You beat them to the punch. Precisely.
Yeah. But when you start to actually decode the
track list, the genres, the evolution of the
band, it becomes very clear that they took their
craft incredibly seriously. And for you listening
right now, if you're someone who loves... Gaining
knowledge quickly but thoroughly without feeling
completely overwhelmed. Honestly, a 32 -minute
punk album is kind of the perfect metaphor for
how you learn. Oh, absolutely. We're going to
break down the track list, the charting data,
and the band's evolution to find all those little
aha moments that are just hiding in plain sight.
So let's talk about how this album is categorized.
Because the source material lists four distinct
genres for this record. It lists punk rock, pop
punk. melodic hardcore and skate punk a lot to
unpack there yeah it's i've always found genre
tags from this specific era to be incredibly
messy it's like throwing a bunch of conflicting
ideas into a musical blender that's a good way
to put it because punk rock is your raw foundation
but then you have pop punk which implies you
know catchy melodies accessibility and right
next to it you have melodic hardcore which suggests
aggressive breakneck speed and a much heavier
edge So are these tags actually describing the
sound or people just throwing everything at the
wall to see what sticks? What's fascinating here
is that they are definitely describing the sound,
but you have to view it through the lens of the
late 90s underground scene. OK, set the scene
for us. So by 1998, the commercialization of
punk was in full swing. Bands were exploding
on mainstream radio and MTV. But underneath that,
there was this. fiercely protective underground
scene clinging to the aggressive uncompromising
roots of hardcore. Right. And DBS was sitting
right on the fault line between those two worlds.
The punk rock tag gives you their underlying
ethos, the DIY anti -corporate stance, but the
tension between melodic hardcore and pop punk
is where it gets really compelling. Because hardcore
purists at the time generally hated pop punk.
It was viewed as selling out. Exactly. It was
a dirty word. Melodic hardcore meant your drummer
was playing at blisteringly fast tempos. Just
hammering the kit. Yeah. Yeah, guitars heavily
distorted and the vocals, while carrying a melody,
were still aggressive, often shouted. It was
music designed for a chaotic live environment.
Right, the mosh pit. But DBS clearly had an ear
for melody. They were writing undeniably catchy
hooks. So the pop punk tag acknowledges that
they had this sugarcoating to their sound that
just made it stick in your head. And then you
have that final tag. which is skate punk. Yeah.
I always felt like skate punk was more of a marketing
term or like a lifestyle brand. than an actual
musical genre well in the broader commercial
sense it eventually became a marketing term sure
but in 1998 it was a highly functional descriptor
functional how skate punk described a very specific
tempo and energy it was music that literally
synced up with the physical act of skateboarding
oh interesting like the literal momentum of it
exactly it was high energy fast paced and usually
featured complex rapid fire drum fills it was
the soundtrack to a physical subculture And that
aggressive, fast -paced energy you're talking
about is literally visible in the album's runtime.
Let's hear the numbers. The total length of I
Is for Insignificant is 32 minutes and 44 seconds.
Okay. And they pack 13 distinct tracks into that
space. So if we do the math on that for everyone
listening, that averages out to roughly two and
a half minutes per song. Which is so short. And
to me, that indicates a band that has zero interest
in wasting your time. None. There is no room
for a two -minute atmospheric intro or like an
indulgent guitar solo. It's an auditory sprint.
It completely aligns with that skate punk functional
descriptor we just mentioned. You drop in, you
execute the song, and you get out before the
momentum dies. Yeah, you drop into the half pipe.
do the trick and get out that brevity is a hallmark
of the genre but it also forces an incredible
amount of discipline on the songwriting because
you don't have time to meander exactly when you
only have two and a half minutes to make your
point your structure has to be flawless you have
to establish the hook immediately the fact that
they maintain this discipline across their third
studio album shows that the insignificant title
was purely ironic they knew exactly what they
were doing structurally well let's look at the
track list because honestly without even hearing
a single note of the audio, the track titles
alone paint this massive, vivid picture of what
it meant to be young and navigating this specific
scene in the late 90s. They really do. I'm seeing
a few distinct themes emerge from this data.
The first one I'd call, let's call it the self
-aware and the cynical. Okay, I like that. So
track five is titled, So Poppy It'll Make You
Puke, part one. Right. And then later down the
track list, track 11 is, So Poppy It'll Make
You Puke. Part two. That perfectly illustrates
the tension between the genres we were just discussing.
Because of the pop punk stigma. Yes. Remember
how we said pop was treated like a dirty word
by hardcore purists? Yeah. By preemptively naming
not just one, but two of their songs. So, Poppy,
it'll make you puke. The band is confronting
that exact stigma head on. It's hilarious. They're
winking at their audience. They're fully admitting,
yes, we wrote a song with a very accessible,
catchy melody, and we know it's going to annoy
the elitists in the scene. It's basically a preemptive
strike against their own critics. You can't make
fun of us for being poppy if we already made
the joke ourselves. Exactly. And I find the structure
of it really interesting, too. They split this
thought into two separate tracks. Part one is
in the first half of the album, and that clocks
in at two minutes and 56 seconds. Okay. But then
part two is buried in the back half, and it's
even shorter. It's just one minute and 56 seconds.
It acts as a cynical recurring motif throughout
the listening experience. Yeah, exactly. It creates
a narrative thread. It shows a really high level
of awareness regarding album sequencing. They
didn't just dump all these songs in a random
order. Right. They deliberately paste the album
to recall a specific joke or theme later in the
runtime. And this is important. They weren't
just making cynical jokes about their own music.
No, definitely not. If you look at some of the
other track titles, the tone shifts dramatically.
Yeah. That's the second major theme here, which
is these very blunt sociopolitical declarations.
Let's hear them. So look at track seven. The
title is Dave or O is a Nazi. Wow. And track
12 is homophobia is a crime and you're a criminal.
OK. Now, obviously, keeping in mind that we are
looking at these titles strictly as historical
data points, we're completely neutral observers
here just analyzing the text. Of course. Just
reading the data. It's jarring how direct these
titles are. Yes. There's absolutely zero metaphor
happening. Yeah, none at all. They aren't hiding
behind poetic imagery. No. And that ties directly
back to their roots in the hardcore scene. Historically,
punk and hardcore have operated as platforms
for direct social commentary and activism. Yeah,
the music. was always intertwined with the message.
The bands in this space often use their music
as a literal megaphone. And what's really striking
about a title like Homophobia is a Crime and
You're a Criminal is the economy of the messaging.
Because of the length. Right. That track is only
one minute and 45 seconds long. Which is barely
enough time to sing the title itself a few times.
Precisely. The title essentially has to serve
as the entire thesis statement. In the era of
physical media, bands utilized track titles as
literal manifestos. Oh, that makes so much sense.
Yeah. Because you'd see the back of the CD case.
Exactly. When someone picked up the CD jewel
case in a record store and flipped it over to
look at the track list, they instantly knew exactly
what this band's ethical and political boundaries
were without hearing a single guitar chord. It
was a filtering mechanism for their audience.
Exactly. A filtering mechanism. I really like
that. You see the track list and you either put
the CD back on the shelf or you take it to the
register. It's incredibly efficient. Very. Okay.
So we have cynical self -awareness. We have these.
Blunt sociopolitical stances. And then there
is a third theme that really anchors the album
in its specific time period. Which is? Youth
and mundanity. Yes. Track two is Viva La Kids.
Track ten is Expectations Are for the Old. And
track eight is simply titled Video Store. Oh,
Video Store is such a perfect artifact of 1998.
It really is. Because the Video Store wasn't
just where you rented a movie, right? Yeah. It
was the cultural hub for teenagers in the 90s.
It was everything. It was where you hung out
on a Friday night, where you talked to the clerks
to find out about weird indie films. Where you
probably bumped into other kids in the local
punk scene. Exactly. It represents the mundane
reality of teenage life before the internet gave
us instant access to absolutely everything. It
grounds the album in a very specific physical
reality. And when you pair that physical reality
with a track like Expectations Are for the Old,
you get a really clear articulation of the broader
punk ethos. How so? Well, that track title is
a complete rejection of the traditional paved
pathway of adulthood. Right. It captures that
universal tension of being young, seeing the
rigid structures that society expects you to
fall into, getting a corporate job, settling
down, buying a house. actively rebelling against
them. Yeah, those expectations are for the old.
Exactly. That youthful defiance is timeless,
of course, but it was particularly potent in
the 90s slacker culture. So we have this really
cohesive picture of a fast, aggressive, politically
vocal self -aware album. But if you look closely
at the data, and I know you love this part, there
is one massive structural anomaly. The closer.
Yes. The very last track. on the album, track
13, is titled Five Billion. And the runtime for
this track is four minutes and ten seconds. Which,
in the context of this specific album, is an
absolute eternity. Exactly. I mean, if their
average song length is around two and a half
minutes, and we've got tracks clocking in at
1 .45, a track that breaks the four minute mark
is a massive outlier. Doesn't that contradict
the whole no filler, zero wasted time ethos we
were just talking about? On the surface, it might
seem like a contradiction. Right. But structurally,
within the context of album sequencing, a significantly
longer final track usually serves a very deliberate
purpose. Okay. It acts as an anchor. Think about
the physical experience of listening to this
album. You have just been bombarded by 12 tracks
of high BPM, aggressive, rapid fire punk music.
Just a wall of sound. Right. If the album just
abruptly ended after another two minute sprint,
it might feel unresolved. It might just feel
like the tape snapped. Yeah, jarring. A four
minute and ten second closer forces a dynamic
shift. It's the cool down lap. Exactly. It might
indicate a slower tempo, a heavier, more methodical
instrumental buildup, or maybe an extended outro.
It gives you space to breathe. Right. It demands
the listener's attention one last time, signaling
that the chaotic sprint is over and giving them
a moment to actually process the frantic 28 minutes
of music that preceded it before the disc actually
stops spinning. That makes a lot of sense. It
shows that even within a genre that is completely
known for its brevity, they are thinking about
the architecture of the album as a complete start
to finish experience. They were very intentional.
Now, I want to transition from the structure
of the album to the actual individuals who made
it. Let's do it. Because there is a crucial piece
of personnel data in the source material that
completely changes how we should view this album
historically. Okay, so the credited band members
for this release are Andy Dixon on guitar and
backing vocals, Jesse Gander on vocals, Paul
Patko on drums and backing vocals, and Donny
Borches on bass guitar. Right. And the text provides
one very specific, explicit note about this lineup.
It says, I Is For Insignificant is the last studio
album to feature Donnie Borges on bass guitar
before he was replaced by Ryan Angus. And that
detail is incredibly significant when you map
it against the band's broader chronology. Let's
look at the timeline. So they released their
debut album, Tales From The Crib, in 1995. Okay.
They followed it up with If The Music's Loud
Enough. In 1996. And then this album comes out
in 1998. So they've been grinding together for
at least three or four years by this point. I
mean, they've written three full -length albums
together. Which means they have put their 10
,000 hours in. Definitely. They have spent countless
hours sweating in a cramped practice space, touring
in a tiny van. Smelling terrible, I'm sure. Oh,
without a doubt. And through all that, developing
a deeply specific psychic connection with one
another musically. To lose a founding member,
particularly your bassist, immediately after
your third album, is a massive rupture in the
ecosystem of the band. I feel like people often
underestimate the role of the bassist in a four
-piece punk band. Like, it's not just a background
instrument. Not at all, especially in melodic,
hardcore, and skate punk. Why is that? Because
the rhythm section, the interplay between Paul
Patco on drums and Donny Borches on bass, that
is the engine of the entire sound. Right. The
bass isn't just playing root notes quietly in
the back. In this genre, it is actively driving
the forward momentum, locking in with the speed
of the kick drum to create that aggressive runaway
train feeling. The propulsion. Yes. When a bassist
and a drummer play together for years, they develop
a shared rhythmic language. They know exactly
when the other person is going to push or pull.
So when Nani leaves, that language is essentially
lost, or at least it has to be completely rebuilt.
Exactly. When Ryan Angus steps in to record their
next album, Some Boys Got It, Most Men Don't,
in 1999. Great title, by the way. It is. But
when he steps in, he is bringing his own style,
his own rhythmic sensibilities, and his own influences.
The fundamental chemistry of the band irreversibly
shifts. So Atnan... It's for Insignificant isn't
just their third album. No. It is the final definitive
historical document of the original four -piece
DBS lineup. It captures the absolute peak of
the musical partnership they started back in
1995 before the entire dynamic change. It's a
time capsule of that exact human ecosystem. And
I want to look at exactly how that ecosystem
interacted with the real world in 1998. Because
here is where it gets really interesting. The
chart numbers. Yes. The source material provides
charting data for this album that is frankly
bizarre, but utterly fascinating. We are looking
at the album's trajectory on the Canadian Top
50 Chart Attack. Before we get into the numbers,
it's really important to clarify what Chart Attack
actually was. Yeah, please do. Because it wasn't
the Billboard Top 100. Right, this isn't tracking
Celine Dion. No. Chart Attack was an incredibly
prominent Canadian music magazine and charting
system that focused heavily on alternative, independent,
and college radio music. Got it. For a band like
DBS, Charting on Chart Attack carried vastly
more cultural weight and scene credibility than
charting on a mainstream pop list ever would.
Because it's their peers. Exactly. It meant that
actual college radio DJs and independent record
store owners across the country were validating
your music. Okay, so keeping that independent
grassroots context in mind, let's look at the
timeline breakdown of their appearances on this
Top 50 chart. Let's do it. Appearance number
one, the week of June 25 to July 2, 1998. Okay.
The album debuts near the bottom of the chart
at number 46. Pretty standard debut. Right. But
then, appearance number two, a full month goes
by. Then, the week of July 30 to August 6, 1998,
the album surges to its peak position at number
27. A huge jump. Massive. And then, appearance
number three. The album disappears in the chart
for almost two entire months. Just gone. Gone.
Then the week of October 1 to October 8, 1998,
it reappears at number 48. Now, if you look at
those massive gaping holes in the timeline, it
tells a very distinct story about how music moved
in the late 90s. Because it's so different from
today. Completely different. Today, in the streaming
era, for you listening at home, chart data is
almost always a smooth, predictable curve. Right.
An album drops on a Friday. The streaming algorithm
pushes it. It hits its absolute peak on week
one, maybe week two. And then it slowly and steadily
declines as the algorithm moves on to the next
shiny new release. It's a slope. Right. This
jagged, erratic start and stop pattern from 1998
is completely alien to modern music distribution.
It looks completely chaotic on paper. It does.
But if you think about the physical reality of
being an independent band in Canada in 1998,
this data starts to look exactly like a map of
a regional summer tour. That is a very, very
likely scenario. Let's break down the mechanics
of that hypothesis. Okay. So in late June, school
lets out for the summer. The band releases the
album on sudden death records. Their local fan
base in North Vancouver and the surrounding British
Columbia area goes to their local independent
record stores and physically buys the CD. So
that localized burst of hometown sales and probably
some local college radio play pushes them onto
the national chart at number 46. Exactly. And
then because they are an independent punk band
in 1998. They don't have a massive corporate
marketing budget. No. They can't shoot a million
dollar music video or buy national television
ads. The only way to promote the record is to
literally get in the van. The physical geographic
grind of the 90s tour. They are driving across
the country. They're playing Legion Halls, basements,
dive bars, all ages clubs. Sleeping on floors.
Oh, absolutely. And they are setting up a merchandise
table at the back of the room every single night,
selling CDs directly out of a cardboard box.
So by late July, maybe they've hit a major market
like Toronto or Montreal. Right. They play a
string of incredibly sweaty, high energy, successful
shows. Maybe they do a live interview on the
local college radio station the next morning.
And then the people who were at the show go to
the local record store that next day and demand
the album. And suddenly, that regional momentum
causes a massive spike in physical sales, and
boom, the album peaks at number 27 on Chart Attack.
Which is huge! To hit number 27 on that chart
meant you were likely beating out much larger
alternative rock bands that had actual major
label backing. It's a real David and Goliath
situation. It's a testament to the raw power
of their live show and the dedication of the
independent scene. But honestly, the most revealing
piece of data here is that third appearance in
October. The October bump. Yes. So the album
drops off a chart entirely throughout August
and September and then suddenly jumps back onto
the chart at number 48 in October. Why? Well,
to disappear for two months and then return to
a top 50 chart proves that the album had genuine
staying power. It wasn't just a fleeting summer
trend. Right. It means the fan base was actively
growing organically entirely through word of
mouth. It's the back to school effect. Exactly.
Think about how cultural transmission worked
back then. You went to a show in July and bought
the CD. Right. You listen to it in your bedroom
all August, and then in September, high school
and college start back up. You bring your Discman
to school. You physically hand the CD to a friend
in the hallway and say, you have to listen to
this. Track 12 is only a minute and 45 seconds
long, and it's amazing. And then that friend
listens to it, loves it. And by October, they
go out to the record store and purchase their
own physical copy. That is exactly how independent
music survived and thrived. You literally had
to physically hand someone the music for it to
spread. The data from the chart attack is essentially
plotting out the slow, gritty, deeply personal
spread of a cultural artifact. It's like tracking
a very cool virus. Pretty much. And what's truly
incredible is that this physical transmission
wasn't just limited to the case. Canadian highway
system. Which brings us to the final piece of
the puzzle. The record labels. Yes. We know the
album was primarily released by Sudden Death
Records in Canada. But the source material explicitly
notes a secondary credit. Empty records in Germany.
Yeah. How does a local punk band from North Vancouver
end up with a distribution deal in Germany in
1998? Like, how does that even happen? It connects
you directly to the reality of the 1990s international
punk network. Which was huge, right? Massive.
Long before social media, the global underground
was highly organized and deeply passionate. It
operated through a massive web of photocopied
fanzines, international tape trading circles,
and independent record labels that actively collaborated
across borders. Pen pals, basically. Exactly.
A label like Empty Records in Germany existed
to seek out aggressive, melodic, hardcore from...
It is so wild to think about. It really is. Just
picture some kid in Munich or Berlin in the fall
of 1998 walking into a record store, buying a
CD from a band based out of North Vancouver,
and experiencing that exact same 32 -minute auditory
sprint that a kid in Toronto was experiencing.
Yeah. They are listening to songs about Canadian
video stores and 90s teenage expectations, and
it resonates with them entirely outside of the
mainstream corporate music machine. It proves
that this specific blend of raw, unfiltered music
truly spoke a universal language. It transcended
geography. It did. But it also highlights the
sheer amount of logistical effort required to
be an international independent band in that
era. Oh, the postage alone. Right. Getting your
master tape shipped to Germany, coordinating
the printing of the jewel cases overseas, ensuring
the track titles, those blunt sociopolitical
declarations we discussed, were accurately represented
to a foreign audience. It was a massive undertaking.
No emails with MP3 attachments. You had to mail
a physical tape. Exactly. Well, looking back
at the round we've covered today, it is amazing
how much narrative you can extract from a Wikipedia
stub if you just know how to read the negative
space around the data points. It's all there
if you look closely. We started with a brief
32 -minute, 13 -track album from 1998, an album
they ironically titled I Is For Insignificant.
And we uncovered a massive exploration of an
entire cultural era. We unpacked the internal
scene politics of melodic hardcore versus pop
punk. The self -awareness required to name a
song so poppy it'll make you puke. Part one and
two. Exactly. We looked at the economy of using
track titles as blunt sociopolitical manifestos.
We explored the delicate human ecosystem of a
four -piece band and how the departure of founding
bassist Donny Borges turned this specific album
into the final time capsule of their original
rhythmic chemistry. a really vital piece of their
history and we tracked the gritty physical reality
of 90s music distribution watching the album
bounce around the Canadian charts on the back
of regional touring and high school word of mouth
before ultimately crossing the Atlantic to reach
listeners in Germany. It serves as a great reminder
to everyone listening that true understanding
rarely comes from just skimming the surface.
Definitely not. Sometimes the deepest insights
come from unpacking dense, fast -paced bursts
of information, just like a punk song. Oh, that's
a great point. In fact, if you look at track
nine on this album, titled Dream, it clocks in
at exactly one minute and... 30 seconds long.
It is the shortest song on the album, yet it
sits right in the middle of the track list, holding
its ground. Information density is a powerful
thing, whether it's in a one -minute punk song
or a handful of chart dates. That's perfectly
said. We could track lengths, a couple of dates,
and a list of four names, and watched an entire
1998 world spring to life. It really did. It
makes you realize how much invisible history
is encoded in the metadata of the art we consume.
And that actually leaves me with a final lingering
thought for you to ponder long after we wrap
up today. Lay it on them. We've just seen how
a few track titles, run times, and scattered
chart appearances from 1998 can paint a vivid,
breathing picture of a cultural movement, a geographical
grind, and a band's internal dynamics. It makes
you wonder if someone, decades from now, were
to look purely at the metadata of the playlist
you are listening to right now. Oh, that's interesting.
Right. Like the exact lengths of the tracks you
favor, the specific titles of the songs you repeat,
the exact weeks and months you listen to the
most. What kind of deep, hidden narrative would
they uncover about your life? What a question.
Something to think about. Thanks for joining
us on this deep dive. Keep looking for the stories
hidden in the data. We'll catch you next time.