Violent Femmes
New Times (Elektra)
by Chris Adams
*Top 5 Reasons Why This Album Blows*
5) Album cover: Gack. Looks like something your idiot cousin made in his graphic design course after his parents got him off the horse. It’s displayed to the family as a symbol of his successful recovery. You vomit quietly and wish the sonofabitch had O.D.’d.
4) The singer’s name is Gordon. Gordon. That didn’t matter in ’84 when you were riding around in the suburbs in a wheezing VW bug, hormones raging, ’cause you felt like enough of a geek to be called “Gordon” anyway, and besides, this guy sang angsty songs about whacking off and shit. So you related. (Relax: It’s only natural.) Violent Femmes‘ first album still sounds like an absolute muthafuggin’ classic to me, which is probably part of the reason this album is so forgettable.
3) The Lyrics: For instance: “It’s Spring and I’m a Spring ding-a-ling.” I shit you not.
2) Utter predictability. Here’s a rough blueprint: Annoying/obnoxious “innocent” whine for vocals, gratuitous baptist Christian “fervor,” Sterling Morrison ripoff acoustic guitar, wobbly bass run, I got no chick, I’m on the edge, I’m a fucking malcontent, wahhh wahhh wahhh. We heard it all ten years ago, except back then it seemed vital, not a virtually soulless paint-by-numbers pastiche. Rock and roll law #32: That which does not develop or change, even if only subtly, is an incipient form of regression.
1) The playing, production and all the technical crap that goes into making a record is hideously competent. It’s a “well-made” album. It “meets industry standards.” Therefore, it falls into that vast quagmire of “mediocre rock records.” There are few things worse than an average rock and roll record. Except maybe a case of the clap.
The bottom line is that the Femmes used to matter (check out their eponymous first LP, and their sophomore effort, Hallowed Ground), and arguably still could – there are a few signs of life on “The Machine” and “Key of 2.” But mostly, these guys seem as uninteresting and dated as a Pac-Man tournament in yer folks’ rumpus room. Too bad. Next.
