The Joneses- Keeping Up With the Joneses

Author's Note: This review was originally published on The Label Project. It can be found here:

http://www.labelproject.com/fullbreachkicks/fbk014.html

In 1986, the Sunset Strip was clogged with hundreds of ozone destroying hair bands. Big haired kids from all over the country arrived daily, hoping they would hit paydirt with their own raunchy tales of debauchery. While many bands had an idea of what sleaze was supposed to sound like, most of them failed in execution. On the rare occasion a band succeeded, they were largely ignored by the masses. The Joneses were one of those bands.

Keeping Up With the Joneses succeeds where many other albums of the genre fail: The recklessness of the band’s sound is kept firmly in tact. The production is raw and messy. The band plays each note as if it was the final note they would ever play. There is no pretension, no extended soloing, just straight forward rock n’ roll. This record pulses with the debauchery of the Rainbow and the filthiness of the mud pit at the Tropicana. This record is not sanitized for your protection, this is the real thing.

In the mid-80s, nearly every band that hit the Sunset Strip claimed The New York Dolls and Johnny Thunders as an influence. While these bands mastered the Dolls’ trash androgyny, very few of them understood their sound. The Joneses not only understand The Dolls, they have mastered their sound. Despite the obvious influence, Keepin’ Up With the Joneses never feels like a ripoff of the Dolls. The Joneses simply took the template already set, and added their own touches.

The record begins with “Miss 747,” a roaring rocker in the vain of the early Rolling Stones. The record really gets going with “She’s So Filthy,” a slinky slice of rhythm and blues. Singer Jeff Drake slows the pace of the lyrics, enunciating every word and showing the full effect of his disaffected bratty tone. “Stranded in the Jungle” begins with the intoxicating beat of bongo drums and monkeys before delivering an atomic blast of guitar.

The mark of a truly great rock band is to take something quite familiar and manage to make it their own. The Joneses not only leave their mark on the sleaze genre, they also manage to make a seemingly innocuous pop song sound dangerous.

When Elton John released “Crocodile Rock” in 1973, it was a nostalgic throwback to rock’s most innocent era. Elton and Susie had so much fun, holding hands and skimming stones. It was the kind of song that was meant to make the listener feel warm and fuzzy. In the hands of Jeff Drake, “Crocodile Rock” is turned into an anthem of teenage hormones. “Crocodile Rock” retains its basic musical structure, but the faster tempo, loud guitars and bratty street punk vocals give the song a nasty edge. Jeff Drake wants to do more than hold hands and skim stones.

If this album had been released in the wake of Appetite For Destruction, The Joneses would have been nipping on Guns n’ Roses heels. Unfortunately the album was released the year before; America wasn’t quite ready for such a dirty piece of rock n’ roll. For the fans of LA glam punk and sleaze, this is an essential recording.

Chris Benoit

I've been meaning to write this for a few days, but I just had to get my head around what has happened.

Besides music, there is nothing in this world that I love more than professional wrestling. Ever since I was six years old, it has been my obsession. Everyone in my life thought it would be a fleeting thing, like it is with most boys. My fervor has grown with each passing year. I love the athleticism, the passion and the pageantry. As a disabled person, I live vicariously through these men and imagine myself fighting alongside them. It has gotten me through many of the worst times my life, and been the icebreaker for my greatest friendships.

Wrestling fans become very attached to their favorite performer. Unlike conventional sports, where the team often overshadows the individual, fans have an intense bond with their favorite wrestler. Although we may not know the person outside of their character, they become our friends, our enemies and our rivals. When a favorite wins, we are right there with him, and when they lose we feel their pain. It's a passionate love affair.

In 1997, I was a hardcore WCW fan. This was during the heyday of the nWo, and the company was on fire. The shows not only had star power, but also had the best in ring action I had ever seen. I was exposed to wrestling styles from around the world. I saw lucha-libre, the Japanese “strong style” and British technical wrestling. That's when I first saw him.

He was a member of the Four Horsemen then, along with Ric Flair, Arn Anderson and Steve McMichael. He was non-descript and could not cut a promo to save his life. Then I saw him in the ring, and my jaw hit the floor. Everything looked legitimate. This man was an athlete of the highest caliber. I started to follow him, and I liked him more with every match I saw.

He didn't become one of my favorites until Bash at the Beach '97. I bought the Pay Per View to see Dennis Rodman get his ass kicked by Lex Luger and the Giant. However, after the midcard, the main event became an afterthought.

He was going up against Kevin Sullivan that night, in a retirement match. If I were 22 at the time, I would have called it "an old fashioned blood feud inspired by the likes of Magnum TA and Tully Blanchard." At the time, I thought they hated each other. The match blew me away. The two men tore each other apart, and every blow connected with a loud smack of flesh. These two hated each other, and you could taste it. My friend Jeremy and I were screaming as if this was the last wrestling match we would ever see. They went back and forth, back and forth. They kicked out of every pinning combination I had ever seen. Then he climbed the turnbuckles and hit his famous swan dive. Jeremy and I screamed the numbers we had heard a million times, our hearts stopping with each slap of the referee's hand.

ONE!

Stay down Sullivan!

TWO!!!

Would Sullivan get his shoulder up at the last second?!

THREE!!!!!!!!!!!!

Jeremy and I jumped three feet in the air when we heard the bell ring. We hugged each other and ran around the house screaming "HE WON! HE WON! HE WON! HE WON!" We would see Chris Benoit wrestle another day. We finally calmed down enough to watch him walk up the ramp. I had never seen such courage displayed in the squared circle. At that moment, I had someone new to look up to.

After his match with Sullivan, Benoit seemed to get better and better. I watched him have phenomenal match after phenomenal match. He helped make Booker T into a singles star with their Best of Seven series. He had a technical clinic with Dean Malenko at Road Wild. He was Bret Hart's personal choice for a tribute match for his brother Owen. Each time, Benoit showed respect and honor for his profession. The more I read about Chris Benoit, the more I liked him. There was no scandal. He seemed to be what he was on TV: A class act with profound respect for the fans and his sport.

When Benoit jumped to the WWF in 2000, along with Eddie Guererro, Perry Saturn and Dean Malenko I was thrilled. Finally he would be in a place where his skills would be appreciated. Once again, Chris Benoit proved that he had the skills to back up his reputation. He had fantastic matches with The Rock, Kurt Angle and Chris Jericho.

Although Benoit had the skills, I doubted he would ever be world champion. After all, he wasn't very good on the mike and was a cruiserweight. Cruiserweights never made it to the top of the card. However, in 2004, he did the unthinkable: he won the Royal Rumble. He entered the ring at #1, and lasted an hour against 30 of the biggest names on the WWE roster. When the bell rang and he collapsed from exaustion I had goosebumps. An actual wrestler had a shot at the sport's most valued prize. The title would be decided in a Triple Threat match with Shawn Michaels and Triple H.

WrestleMania XX was already shaping up to be one of the best nights I'd ever had as a wrestling fan. Eddie Guererro retained his WWE Championship in a great match against Kurt Angle. The Undertaker went back to his deadman persona, with Paul Bearer in tow. The magnificence of Madison Square Garden added to the aura of the event.

Shawn Michaels came down to the ring first, showboating as usual. Then Benoit, who looked like a man on a mission. Finally the champion strode down to the ring, confident in his abilities. As I looked at these three men in the ring staring at each other I remember thinking "This one is going to be special." I was right. The main event of WrestleMania XX is one of the greatest matches I have ever seen. Like Sullivan, it went back and forth, back and forth. There were reversals on top of reversals, kickout after kickout. Michaels and Helmsley both wore the crimson mask.

Towards the end of the match, Hunter had Benoit setup for a Pedigree. My heart sank, the dream had ended. At the last second, Benoit was able to reverse the hold and now had Triple H in the Crippler Crossface! I screamed with joy, but it looked as if Hunter had kicked Benoit away. My heart sank again.

BUT WAIT! CHRIS BENOIT HELD ON AND ROLLED THROUGH!! HUNTER IS LOCKED IN THE CRIPPLER CROSSFACE WITH NOWHERE TO GO!!!

My heart was beating so fast I thought I was going to have a heart attack.

C'mon Hunter, tap. Tap before I die.

TAP! TAP! TAP YOU SONOFABITCH!

I was yelling so loudly that my brother thought something was wrong and came in to check on me.

With one final burst of strength Benoit reared back, increasing the pressure on Hunter's neck. Finally he couldn't take it anymore and tapped his hand on the canvas. The Game was over.

I let out a scream of orgasmic joy. Chris Benoit won the World Title at WrestleMania. Referee Earl Hebner got the belt from the timekeeper and presented it to the new champion. Benoit burst into tears. I did too.

Confetti started to pour from the ceiling of the Garden. Benoit turned around saw his best friend, fellow champion Eddie Guererro. The two men stood in the center of the ring and hugged. The dream had come true. Then Benoit's family poured into the ring: His parents, his wife Nancy, daughter Megan, and sons David and Daniel. It was the most poignant moment I have ever seen in a wrestling ring.

As I watched Benoit walk up the aisle that night, I will never forget what I was thinking:

"This represents everything I love about this sport, and I am proud to call this man my champion."

All my life I had been made fun of for liking wrestling, and I finally had someone that I could show to people that weren't wrestling fans. After I would show them one of his matches, they would begrudgingly admit that Benoit was a legitimate athlete. Each time I saw Chris Benoit my respect grew. He earned every ounce of it.

In November of 2005, his best friend Eddie Guererro died of a heart attack in his hotel room. On RAW the next night, Benoit cried his eyes out and I thought I had seen a glimpse of the man behind the character. I felt empathy for everyone that night, but Benoit's tearful speech shook me to the core.

Benoit soldiered on, moving to Smackdown and winning the United States title once again. He seemed to be preparing the new generation of stars, feuding with Montel Vontavious Porter. MVP's ring presence improved with each bout.

Two weeks ago, Chris Benoit was traded from Smackdown to ECW. He looked CM Punk directly in the eye, and I anticipated Benoit's greatest feud yet. I had fantasies of hour long time limit draws, and respectful handshakes. The young lion and the cagey veteran were about to collide.

The feud never happened.

On Monday morning, I went to 411mania.com to read the Vengeance results. Nothing really stood out, except for the fact that Benoit missed his match with Punk due to "personal reasons." I thought it was odd, but figured a grandmother had died or something. I pushed the news aside and went on with my day. Around 5:30 PM, I checked my Myspace page and saw that Marty Jannetty had posted a bulletin. Marty's bulletins are usually overdramatic, so I gave it passing glance. The passing glance turned into disbelief:

"please tell me Chris Benoit and family is NOT really dead!!"

Oh God....not again. Not again.

I opened the bulletin:

"WWE is reporting that Chris Benoit and his family has all been found dead in their home...I'm just trying to get my mind right to be a pawl bearer at Sherri's funeral....and...Chris being another good friend...come on man..some one tell me either this is a stupid a stroyline...or....am I fuckin dreaming???? or in hell!!!"

No....No....This can't be true. Marty is probably just looking for attention. I'll go on WWE.com and everything will be fine.

Marty wasn't lying. Chris Benoit was dead. Another piece of my childhood gone forever....and his whole family went along with him. I was dumbfounded. Was it carbon monoxide? A robbery? Had he been murdered? I couldn’t believe it.

My friend Shaun came over that night, and we watched RAW together. The show opened with Vince McMahon explaining what happened to an empty arena in Corpus Christi. McMahon scrapped his "death," and promised us some of Benoit's greatest moments. As I watched the ending of the 2004 Royal Rumble, I thought that this format had become too familiar. Benoit's coworkers delivered tear-filled speeches about what a great man Chris Benoit was inside and outside of the ring. Their stories reaffirmed my respect.

Shaun left shortly after the telecast ended. I was about to go to bed, but decided to check WWE.com one last time. They now had more information. Chris Benoit had killed his wife and child before killing himself. I reread the sentence a million times, but it still didn't click. Monica IM'ed me and said the story was on CNN. I had to come to terms with the fact that I was guilty of mourning a murderer. I went to bed with a heavy heart.

I woke up the next day with the media in full swing. They didn't give a damn about Chris Benoit before, but were quick to judge the situation. Wrestling is a horrible redneck sport, so of course steroids and the WWE were to blame. I didn't know what to think. I told my mom what happened and she dismissed Benoit as "Just another whacko."

I went to work and tried to forget about the whole thing. My coworker Gina is a fan and she asked me how I was holding up. I looked her directly in the eyes and said: "I'm devastated." My coworker Stephen condescendingly asked me what was wrong and I told him. He dismissed my feelings. My coworker Lauren said that it was a tragedy, but with a smirk on her face. She is too smart for wrestling.

I went on the WWE website several times that day, and watched the company try to erase all traces of Chris Benoit from history. I watched the media turn the Benoit situation from a tragedy into another excuse to show the evils of professional wrestling. When I went to the wrestling websites, people were going through the exact same feelings I was trying to deal with. How can you forgive yourself for cheering a murderer? Should I even watch wrestling anymore?

The story kept getting more bizarre as the days went on. Vince McMahon went on the Today show to defend his company and got jumped on by Meredith Veira. Lauren made a comment about steroids in wrestling while I was watching it, and I childishly lashed out. I told her to shut the fuck up and yelled and screamed. I couldn’t handle it anymore. I quickly composed myself and apologized, but I felt as if I were being attacked as well. Our society is very hypocritical when it comes to wrestling. It's perfectly fine to watch a reality show with vapid Playboy Playmates, but if you watch wrestling you are the scum of the earth.

The media coverage of the event has only made this worse. It's too easy to say "just avoid the media" because it's impossible in our society. The talking head shows claimed that they were blaming Benoit, but were really going after wrestling. They hired bitter ex-wrestlers who lost their ride to substantiate their claim: Mark Mero, Lex Luger, Debra McMichael and The Ultimate Warrior. The only show that seemed to give the story a balanced approach was Nancy Grace, who admitted she didn't understand the business or the murder. Chris Jericho appeared on her show and actually told it like it was. The worst was Bill O'Reilly, who got Irving Muchnick, a respected journalist, to give another aspect to the story. O’Reilly never even let him speak, calling him a Benoit apologist.

I have had enough. This would be so much easier for me if I didn't like Chris Benoit so much. I know wrestling isn't real, and that these guys are just playing characters but until Monday night nobody had a bad thing to say about him. I'm not apologizing for Benoit at all, but I want there to be some explanation for why he did this. Why did he throw it all away? There has to be a better answer than steroids or prescription drugs.

This blog may be hard to understand if you aren't a wrestling fan. Chris Benoit killed his family, why are you upset? The man is a murderer, get over it. I am upset because I had a lot of honest emotion wrapped up in this man. His matches brought me a lot of joy, and they are some of the best times I've had as a wrestling fan.

I suppose I'll have to separate the performer from the person. I may be able to do that eventually, but it won't be for a long time. Right now, I'm too numb. I know Nancy and Daniel are in a better place, and I hope Benoit made peace with his maker.

The Wildhearts- s/t

Author's Note: This review was originally published on 411Mania.com. It can be found here:

http://www.411mania.com/music/album_reviews/57567/The-Wildhearts---The-Wildhearts-Review.htm


When the Wildhearts released their debut album in 1993, they seemed to be Britain’s answer to Guns n’ Roses. They had it all: Hard rock raunch, thunderous riffs, and an excessive lifestyle. While the band seemed like another Guns knockoff, it was their love of pop music that set them apart from their peers. The combination of riffs and melody seemed like a surefire recipe for success. Unfortunately band infighting and substance abuse tore the band apart before they made a significant mark on the mainstream hard rock scene. On their self-titled album, The Wildhearts have another shot at full-on rock stardom.

The Wildhearts is the best rock record to be released in 2007. Guitarist and main songwriter Ginger has cleaned up his act and it shows. This is his tightest collection of songs since 1995’s P.H.U.Q. The songs contain every element that make the Wildhearts so exciting: Bludgeoning riffs, pop harmonies and lyrics with rapier wit. The Wildhearts roar out of the speakers with the ferocity of a mechanized tank. This is not a halfhearted attempt at a comeback; this is an attempt for world domination.

While the band’s trademark sound remains in tact, they manage to throw some curveballs in the mix. The biggest change is the twin guitar duels between Ginger and second guitarist CJ Wildheart. The Wildhearts have never been afraid to solo, but the extended jamming on tracks like “Rooting for the Bad Guys” add another layer to the band’s dense sound. A five minute guitar solo might seem emissary and indulgent, but the music is so focused and intense that it breezes by. Every note has been meticulously planned, and each one has a place within the context of the song.

The twin leads of Ginger and CJ are intriguing, but the most interesting thing about The Wildhearts is how the band finds new ways to fold in their love of pop melodies. The band goes back and forth between the two genres, often several times within a song. Many songs contain musical references from the most unlikely places. “The New Flesh” takes its lyrical structure from Billy Joel’s “We Didn’t Start the Fire.”

Lyrically, the band has grown up a bit. The decadent lifestyle portrayed on the early records is there, but not as prominent.. Ginger’s lyrics are more political, taking cunning swipes at the Bush Administration and the United States’ involvement in the Iraq War. He also tackles social issues such as welfare and religion. The strength of the political songs is subtlety. Ginger’s voice never rises above a laid-back drawl, so his anger isn’t apparent at first. After repeat listens, the depth of Ginger’s anger comes into full view.

The Wildhearts is a rarity in 2007: A rock record that never sounds forced. Everything from the solos, to the melodies to the lyrics is completely organic. The Wildhearts is a throwback to a time when rock bands worked to make artistic statements. This is an album, not a collection of songs. What a concept!

Marilyn Manson- Eat Me, Drink Me

Author's Note: This review was originally published on 411Mania.com. It can be found here:

http://www.411mania.com/music/album_reviews/55965/Marilyn-Manson---Eat-Me,-Drink-Me-Review-%5B2%5D.htm


Ten years ago, Marilyn Manson reigned supreme as every parent’s worst nightmare. Armed with industrial-tinged metal, androgynous makeup and mock Satanism, Manson became an icon for a generation of angry youth. By the dawn of the new millennium, Manson faded into the background, replaced by Eminem and 50 Cent. A decade after he proclaimed himself an “Antichrist Superstar,” Manson attempts to reclaim his position as the King of Shock with Eat Me, Drink Me.

Eat Me, Drink Me was recorded in the aftermath of Manson’s bitter divorce from striptease artist Dita Von Teese. The specter of the relationship hangs over every aspect of the record. The glossy sheen of his early albums is gone, replaced by a surprisingly lean sound. The heavy industrial rock influence is also gone, with droning flourishes of synth in its place. Manson’s voice reflects the bleakness of the music, croaking in his usual throaty growl. Guitarist Tim Skold adds another layer to Manson’s sound by introducing guitar solos. Skold is a fine guitarist, but his ‘80s inspired solos take away from Manson’s post-punk inspired vision.

While Manson’s musical experimentation works, his lyrics do not. Manson is trying so hard to be shocking that he borders on self-parody. Song titles like “If I Was Your Vampire” and “You and Me and the Devil Makes Three” were intended to be self-referential and ironic, but are earnest and hokey. Lyrics like “I want your pain to taste/why your ashamed” and “You press the knife against your heart/and say ‘I love you so much, kill me now,” sound like they were written by a third rate My Chemical Romance. The confidence, anger and swagger that transformed Brian Warner into Marilyn Manson are nowhere to be found. At times Manson sounds like a teenager who found his girlfriend sleeping with the captain of the football team. The invincible rock star who once proclaimed himself “The God of Fuck” seems like a distant memory.

Manson’s newfound immaturity is encapsulated on “Mutilation is the Most Sincere Form of Flattery,” supposedly meant to be an attack on My Chemical Romance. Manson charges the band with “standing in his shadow” and claims that they are “rebels without applause.” If Manson were on his A-Game, this song could have been scathing. Unfortunately it’s nothing but cliché insults and obscenities. It has the feel of playing the dozens, but kids are usually more creative.

Despite all of its flaws Eat Me, Drink Me is still an enjoyable album. The post-punk theme is a welcome change for Manson, and creates a wonderfully dark mood. Manson still has the charisma that made him such a huge star, which is something that most modern rock singers lack. Even though the lyrics are some of the worst he’s ever written, Manson’s earnestness throughout gives them a bizarre charm. Manson may not be the most dangerous man in America anymore, but he’s still pretty fun to listen to.

Poison- Poison'd

Author's note: This review was originally published on 411Mania.com. It can be found here:

http://www.411mania.com/music/album_reviews/55735/Poison---Poison%5C%5Cd-Review.htm


There are two types of cover albums. The first is meant to be a stopgap, whetting the appetite of the fans before releasing an album of all new material. The second is an attempt to revive flagging record sales by releasing an album of songs that fans are already familiar with. Poison's Poison’d falls into the latter category.

Poison has never been a band for the critics, but the carefree essence of their music put them above many of their peers. This carefree vibe is completely absent on Poison’d, replaced by cold calculation. Every part of this album was meticulously planned, designed to appeal to every type of rock fan. Nothing was left to chance, which makes for a bland, predictable listening experience. Poison’d isn’t so much a record, but a product


The calculation works to some extent. The Sweet’s “Little Willy” nearly captures the lighthearted sleaze of the original, and the ballads (Alice Cooper’s “I Never Cry” and The Marshall Tucker Band’s “Can’t You See”) follow the successful "Every Rose Has It's Thorn" template. Bret Michaels' voice has gotten raspier, which gives the band a tougher sound. The highlight of the disc is Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers “I Need to Know.” Michaels and guitarist C.C. DeVille play off of each other like it is 1986, showing that their combustible chemistry isn’t completely gone.


Unfortunately, Poison’d suffers from many miscalculations. The first offender is The Rolling Stones’ “Dead Flowers.” The original appears on Sticky Fingers, recorded while The Stones were in the grip of heroin addiction. Mick Jagger sounds tired and worn, and sings the song as if he anticipates death. Keith Richards and Mick Taylor compliment the vocals, laconically strumming on acoustic guitars. Poison attempt to replicate the original as much as possible, but they come off as an amateur bar band. However, “Dead Flowers” is far from the most offensive thing on the album.

Poison’s cover of David Bowie’s “Suffragette City” is the worst thing they have ever recorded. All of the sleaze, camp and ambiguous sexuality of the original have been removed, replaced by generic Poison riffs. Bret Michaels goes through the motions, not even bothering to pick up any of Bowie’s nuances. Mick Ronson’s fuzz-toned custom Les Paul has been replaced by C.C. DeVille’s unnecessary wanking. Even the song’s final cry of “Wham Bam, Thank You Ma’am!” sounds forced.

Poison’d wraps up several previously released covers, dating all the way back to 1987. These covers add nothing to the album, and actually show how lame their cover songs have always been. The band’s great rendition of “Cover of a Rolling Stone” is nowhere to be found, but their atrocious cover of “Squeezebox” is prominently featured.

Poison has been firmly entrenched in the nostalgia circuit for several years now, and Poison’d ensures that they will stay there. This album does have some decent moments, but they are overshadowed by the misfires. If Poison’d contained half of the feelgood vibe of the early albums, it would have been a fun listen. As it stands, it’s just a way to promote a tour.

Music From and Inspired by Spider Man 3

Author's Note: This review was originally published on 411Mania.com. It can be found here:

http://www.411mania.com/music/album_reviews/53864/Music-From-and-Inspired-by-Spider-Man-3-Review.htm


The action movie soundtrack has become the last bastion of shallow cock rock in mainstream American pop music. Nothing accents the American male’s appetite for explosions like Survivor’s “Eye of the Tiger” or Disturbed’s “Down with the Sickness.” Songs like these help us relive the explosion of testosterone we felt in the theatre as we watched our spandex clad heroes dispatch the bad guys.

The previous Spider Man soundtracks fulfilled this stereotype, taking ponderous ballads by Chad Kroeger and Dashboard Confessional to the top of the charts. These songs fit the bill for an action movie soundtrack: Completely shallow and utterly disposable. The Spider Man 3 soundtrack attempts to resolve these sins by giving Spidey an indie rock makeover.

This decision is admirable, but fails in execution. When you think of Spider Man swinging through New York City on his way to battle The Green Goblin, do you hear the dulcet tones of Snow Patrol? There is nothing wrong with Snow Patrol, but how do they fit with Spider Man? This is a question that repeats itself throughout the record. How does this band fit within the confines of Spider Man 3?

The album begins with “Signal Fire,” from the aforementioned Snow Patrol. “Signal Fire” is a great song, but fails as an opener. The first rule of making a great compilation is to get the listener’s attention, which “Signal Fire” fails to do. The Killers’ U2 style rave-up “Move Away” would have been a better choice, because it helps to set the mood. “Move Away” is the perfect setup for the Yeah Yeah Yeahs’ “Sealings,” as the song expands on the darker tone of the film.

The problem with the Spider Man 3 soundtrack is not the music; it’s the sequencing. Songs seem to have been placed haphazardly on the disc, with little care for flow. There is nothing on this disc that is particularly bad, but many of the songs don’t belong next to each other. Some tracks should have been moved up, and some should have been moved down. An example is Wolfmother’s “Pleased to Meet You,” an acceptable slice of neo-stoner rock. However, it follows the Yeah Yeah Yeahs and The Killers, so you go from two detached art rock bands to a band that wants to be AC/DC.

The weirdest addition of all is “The Twist,” by Chubby Checker. “The Twist” is one of the most important songs in history, but considering the somber mood of the disc, the presence of Mr. Checker is confounding. The odd choice is amplified by its place on the album. Chubby Checker’s 45 year old hit is sandwiched between introspective ballads from Simon Dawes and Rogue Wave. Although “Sightlines” and “Scared of Myself” are pleasant, they don’t exactly make you want to twist again like you did last summer.

Perhaps the reason the Spider Man 3 soundtrack doesn’t work is because the film hasn’t been released. Therefore, the listener is essentially blind, hearing these songs without knowing what their context is. However, even if the songs work within the confines of celluloid, this is still a poorly planned soundtrack album. Saturday Night Fever, Empire Records and Dazed and Confused are considered classic soundtracks because the songs work within the film and as a cohesive album. Spider Man 3 feels like a random collection of songs. It’s a shame, because there is nothing particularly bad about any of the music here. At least Spider Man 3 is Chad Kroeger free.

Avril Lavigne- Best Damn Thing

Pop fans rejoice: Avril Lavigne’s period of introspective artistic expression is over. The world is no longer under her skin and she no longer wishes to be Alanis Morrissette. She has fully embraced the snotty brat persona that made her debut album so appealing. Avril’s third album is not the Best Damn Thing that she proclaims it to be, but there are a few enjoyable moments.

The Best Damn Thing should have been Lavigne’s second album, because it expands on the template set on her 2002 debut Let Go. On her 2004 sophomore effort Under My Skin, Lavigne tried to prove she was a legitimate songwriter, and although the record contained some decent singles, the “maturity” of the album felt forced. Lavigne makes no attempts to broaden her sound here, staying firmly within the bouncy pop/rock that made her famous.

The album explodes out of the gate with “Girlfriend,” one of the catchiest pop songs in recent memory. “Girlfriend” has all the elements of great pop music: A simple guitar riff, inane lyrics and a cheerleader chant that refuses to go away. To Lavigne’s credit, she manages to keep up the pace for a remarkably long time. The kiss-off anthem “I Can Do Better” is pop-punk in the blink-182 tradition, and “Runaway” manages to channel the Replacements’ “Within Your Reach.”

The album’s high point is “When You’re Gone,” a gorgeous piano driven ballad. Lavigne’s lyrics are very cliché, but the song’s lush orchestration and simple melody make up for it. Unlike the ballads on Under My Skin, “When You’re Gone never feels forced. Lavigne brings true feelings and emotion to the song, and that’s what makes it work so well.

The problem with The Best Damn Thing is that it gets old. Hearing Avril Lavigne tell a boy to go away the first time is great, the second time it’s fine, but by the third time you say to yourself “Wait, isn’t she married?” Lavigne’s voice is very thin, and it becomes grating. She is unable to hit high notes, and when she tries it’s pretty painful. Lavigne covers up her lack of vocal ability by adopting a faux-punk snarl. She compliments the vocal affectation with copious amounts of cursing. There is nothing wrong with cursing on a record, but Lavigne curses like a 12 year old who has just learned how.

The lack of maturity in The Best Damn Thing is what ultimately destroys its potential. The snotty brat persona is fine when you are 17 years old, but as a 22 year old married woman? It’s not only immature, it comes off as artificial. A lot of the appeal of pop music is that it is artificial, but Lavigne tries to convince the world that she is more than a shallow pop star.

Despite these problems, The Best Damn Thing is a decent pop record. It contains a great single, and a few solid pop songs. If you want a piece of musical candy, you could do a lot worse: Fergie for instance.