People love to give music critics a hard time for immediately rejecting any form of mainstream pop, dismissing all things radio-friendly without a second thought in favor of the latest indie act to come out of the Netherlands--the guys who only sing in their native Dutch and would never sell out by lending a song to the soundtrack of the new big-budget holiday blockbuster. That is, until they show up on the cover of next month's Spin, and the search begins again for a new indie darling. Well, I'm not that cool (or knowledgeable), but I have to draw the line somewhere. Direct your attention to two recent pop releases that will no doubt eat up the airwaves, but may just eat.
The Wallflowers--Red Letter Days
Attention Jakob Dylan: Your father is Bob Dylan, and you still suck. This should not be possible. Granted you have a lot to live up to and it was easier for kids like me whose fathers wore camouflage swim trunks to the beach, but your pops is still pummeling you in the cool category. When he plugged in at Newport all those years ago, he made history by taking a chance, and you still can't amass the testicular fortitude to stop writing the same song over and over and over. This album is nothing new.
David Gray--A New Day at Midnight
This music is a Honda Accord. This music is the missionary position. This music is Styrofoam-flavored water. If David Gray were a black woman with dreadlocks, he would be Tracy Chapman. A New Day at Midnight was as big a risk for Gray as the time in second grade when your friend dared you to write "pee" on the chalkboard.
Yawnsville.
The next time your roommate defends Gray's music by saying it just got stuck in her head and now it's growing and she can't get it out, remind her that the same description can be used for brain tumors.
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