This is very bad. Wannabe Foo Fighters wanking off in a room with no one listening. This is slick n’ cheesy L.A.-style leather pants rock that is so safe and sterile it feels appropriate being played in the geriatric ward. No one wants to hear this. Anonymous, ephemeral, bland. “They’re heavy but not metal,” claims their press release—ooh! I’m curious now! This band seems trapped in an indie-rock vortex. Instead of selling their souls to major labels in exchange for a fleeting glimpse at stardom, they’ve chosen to release their record on Mammoth, a smaller label that won’t give them the chance to be the silicone rock stars they desperately want to be. Where is the audience for this totally unmemorable slab of buffalo dung? It’s a trial to offer constructive criticism with material as insultingly loser as this, but the only glimmer of hope I can offer is this: retroactive abortion.
Frankie Machine is music for weaklings who listen to what is dictated to them via the radio. Since this band will never be played on the radio it is truly unfortunate that their meager voices will never be heard. If the band wants to fight this reviewer for being so harsh, he will have no problem with that.
// Notes from the Road
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