The one-note story lines and simplistic lessons have turned it into a cliché feel-good-athon, like an after-school special that accidentally airs in prime time. Even Sue Sylvester, the crown jewel of the show’s characters, has lost her edge, shifting schizophrenically episode to episode from ruthless taskmaster to misunderstood softie. (Introducing a sister with Down syndrome and then sacrificing her on the altar of quick and easy emotional investment is downright cheap.) There is so much effort to maintain the plot’s status quo — relationships come full circle, problems are introduced and simultaneously solved, babies are adopted and disappear into the void of narrative convenience — that the group might as well be called No Directions, and it’s hard not to be distressed at how lazily written this show… wait, look! There’s a celebrity guest singing a popular hit! Never mind.

In the ’00s, no indie-rock band put out material as consistently strong as Spoon. Britt Daniel steadfastly refused to write even one clunker on Spoon’s records, which were released every two or three years to an audience that was impressed, then amazed, and then slightly bored by how Spoon never made an artistic misstep. This consistency proved to be a double-edged sword. Spoon was both highly respected and yet not passionately adored. Almost everybody that followed indie rock seemed to like Spoon, but never as much as bands not necessarily expected to be brilliant. It was only when you looked back over the course of several years that you realized that, holy shit, Spoon was one of the best bands of its era.