Intended to be the kinda album a swingin’ bachelor (with a good education, a solid day job and well-polished shoes) would throw on the hi-fi on Friday nights.
Amy Arena doesn’t craft interesting phrases or emotional wordplay. She just rambles and bitches about how much men suck and how strong she is for saying so.
Remember “Don’t Forget Me When I’m Gone?” Veldt seem dead set on recreating the same kind of wonderbread euro-alterna-soul that made my dentist a rich man.
No faux British accent, no green hair, and no teen angst found here. Just 14 punchy rave-ups, including a blistering cover of Paul McCartney and Wings’ “Jet.”
After toiling for three years in obscurity, this dark, brooding, quasi-Goth metal trio from San Francisco has started to get the notoriety they deserve.