Dream City Film Club owes me 156 minutes of my life back.
(59 x 3) - (7 x 3) = 156. That’s three listens to the band’s hideous In the Cold Light of Morning at 59 minutes a spin, minus the seven minutes per play which was listenable, making for 156 minutes owed. I’d bill the band for the time spent writing this record review as well, but if one person reads this and avoids the album, then at least my record-reviewing time hasn’t been wasted.
In the Cold Light of Morning is, barring just two tracks, completely horrid. Granted, lots of bands make bad albums, but this record takes the cake. It’s not just hideous musically, but this clunker’s unbearably pretentious and features some of the most ridiculous lyrics ever penned. “I’m pissing broken glass and razor blades.” I mean, what on earth is that? That’s one of the gems shouted over and over on “Nerveshot,” and after hearing that track three times I still haven’t figured out what the fuck that line is supposed to mean. Nor do I get the rest of the album.
Sometimes Dream City Film Club wants to be the Jesus and Mary Chain. Sometimes it’s Stone Temple Pilots. Sometimes I can’t figure out what it wants to be, but it sure isn’t good. Yeah, the opener works, and the last cut, the traditional hymn “Steal Away,” is actually better than decent, but literally everything in the middle is more painful than tearing knee ligaments. (I did that once, and it was horrible. Four months on crutches, too. But I digress.) In fact, listening to this hurts so much I won’t even try selling it to a record store as used bin fodder. My conscience won’t let me. I can’t possibly let someone else pick this up on a whim and suffer like I did while playing it.
Summary: Dream City Film Club is bad. The worst, maybe. And if you’re wondering why I haven’t rated the album a zero, the seven minutes that were good account for about 12% of the whole. (And I’m being generous by rounding up.) End of review. Don’t buy this.
// Notes from the Road
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