Well, all good things must come to an end. When Pearl Jam released �Yield� two years ago, I ballyhooed them as the best recording rock band in America. And they were. Their previous albums -- the uproarious �Ten,� the blood �n� guts �Vs.,� the dark �Vitalogy,� the diverse �No Code� -- left little doubt in my mind that they were the champions of an ailing genre in a world of rap, techo and Hanson.
I am not saying �Binaural� is a bad album. It�s not. In fact, it is an excellent album. It just doesn�t have the bite I�ve come to expect from Pearl Jam. The opener, �Breakerfall,� boded well the first time I spun the disc; the second cut, �God�s Dice,� made me equally as happy.
But from there it was all kind of down hill, a collection of songs lacking the usual edge and compositional skill of which the band is capable. Even with Matt Cameron, their 87th drummer, there to infuse new energy and spirit, the band fell flat.
�Binaural� was a disappointment for me, a guy who came to like Pearl Jam only after begrudgingly agreeing to listen to their music. But when I did, I was blown away by what I heard. As with any new release by a favorite band, I�m sure it will grow on me. The problem is, it shouldn�t have had to take more than one go-through.
I don�t know if I�m the first to say it, but here it goes: There is no �matchbox twenty� -- there is only Rob Thomas and four musicians to back him up. There. I�ve said it. It�s done.
Not that what I think is worth a damn, especially when it comes to Thomas, who, along with his supporting cast, is hotter than a salariman�s armpit in August. Right off the mind-boggling success of his collaboration with Carlos Santana (�Supernatural�), Thomas is being hailed as a pop music genius, a guy with a godlike ability to pen hooks (he writes 99.9 percent of the band�s songs), sing in an inimitable style and make bad hair cool again.
�Mad Season� is pretty much straightforward pop with its eye on Billboard. �Bent,� a �smash hit single� according to a sticker on the jewel box, is catchy enough, as are cuts like �Black & White People� and the title track. However, you have to 1) be a real fan of pop music and 2) be able to tolerate Thomas� semi-moaning, meowed vocals in order to enjoy the disc.
But as always, it�s the fans who make the band. Fan reviews of �Mad Season� and its relatively low-key warm-up concerts have been nothing short of gushing. After all, if you start out as a pop band, there�s really no way people can say you�ve sold out or gone commercial. That is the essence of M20, and their minions don�t want it any other way.
I�ve always said that the greatest job in the world would be writing the synopses on the backs of video boxes. I mean, you can take the most God-awful piece of cinematic dung and make it sound like a �Citizen Kane.�
It never dawned on me that writing liner notes for CDs could be equally satisfying. That is till I decided to get all hip and review the latest from Saint Etienne, a trio of British popsters who �integrate pure pop enchantment and studio-as-instrument sorcery� and are on a �quest for poptastic perfection.�
Gag.
So say the sycophantic liner notes, at least. After reading these entries, I was thoroughly convinced that Sarah Cracknell, Bob Stanley and Pete Wiggs were shoe-ins for at least four Nobel Prizes, a Pulitzer, Grammys in every major category and the Miss Universe crown (to be accepted collectively, of course).
Turns out, though, that they should get the Golden Turkey Award. �Sound of Water� is a collection of 14 boring, overproduced songs -- four of them Japan-only bonus tracks � that from time to time was almost interesting and lively enough to wake me from the REM sleep the first song induced.
Almost.
If you�re into programmed, overtly European dance-pop music, go for it. Me, I�ll pass.
After the flaccidity of Saint Etienne, it was refreshing to be blasted out of my tatami recliner by The Donnas, four teenage rowdies from Palo Alto, Calif., who rock beyond their ages.
Perhaps a lot of high school girls think about prom or graduating or their date with little Bobby this weekend. The Donnas, however, are thinking about power chords, leather and M�tley Cr�e. Though their sound is reminiscent of The Ramones and The Runaways, The Donnas have the chops to stand without the aid of those shoulders. They write their own tunes (save for the occasional cover, The Cr�e�s �Too Fast For Love� on this disc), they play their instruments skillfully and they have a bead on the these-go-to-11 philosophy of rock. Pre-fab divas they are not.
A wonderfully twisted mutation of 1950s� girl groups and a much-needed, refreshing slap in the face for no-assembly-required crap like Britney Spears and The Backstreet Boys, The Donnas have nowhere to go but up. I�ll take it a step further: With raucous tracks like �Doin� Donuts,� �Get Outta My Room� and �Party Action,� and an innocently devilish aura about them, The Donnas could very well be the savior of American youth.
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