![]() So the Kids "kept it real" and recorded an entire album of songs which follow the same formula, yet never reach the quasi- memorable qualities of a radio hit. The Get Up Kids quickly point to the large record deals they turned down to "stay independent." Most labels urged the band to re-record "Don't Hate Me" from the band's debut. Only after a repetitive process that borders on "brainwashing" can the melodies even began to tunnel into your brain like a chigger. Instead, the clinical production scrubs the rock down to a smooth grain of clear sand which wedges unreachable into the crotch. Tinkling keys behind styrofoam riffs attempt to "mature" the sound. The implementation of keyboards and acoustic guitars is predictable and unimpressive. ![]() Instead we're left with the nasal whining of another pompadoured youth who recently received his degree from the Bratty School of Caucasian Nostril Singing, along with his classmates, the Guy from Lit, the Guy from Smash Mouth, the Guy from Blink 182, and the Guy from Showoff. These flaws would be easier to swallow if delivered with soul or conviction. Further, a "nationality," which is an adjective or notion of self set by political boundaries, is not a physical object which can accept smuggled cargo. I'd rather focus on meaningless lyrics masquerading as poetic insight, such as "I smuggle myself into new nationalities." One can not smuggle oneself, excepting by stowing away in an antique schooner- and those don't exist anymore. ![]() Each song is about missing, wanting, or needing a girl who is typically "a world away." I'd like to get into the impossibilities and improbabilities of two people actually being "a world away," but I'll let the obviously empty cliché fight for itself. The Get Up Kids write from assumption, not passion. Is it so much to ask for a shred of originality in music? A frustrated "Wrragh!" from the singer, or an unexpected car alarm would at least trigger a central nervous system response in the listener. You're going to hear a song that can easily be substituted for any track off Something to Write Home About. Tune to any station marketed towards white people between the ages of 12 and 27. You don't need to spend $12.99 on an R.D.A. But look around- we're suspended in a homogenous gel of pop. Naturally, I can't justly criticize anyone for indulging in pop without being hypocritical. A coin- dispensed rubber glow- in- the- dark bouncing ball shaped like an alien head is pop. No longer will the excuse, "Oh, but it's just pop," be accepted. If something is released to the general public and is theoretically consumable, it's pop.
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