Choosing albums to review can be hard, but this week, the music practically chose itself.
I had long been waiting to decry the hype surrounding Green Day’s new album, and I just recently added ownership of Phil Collins’ complete works to my five-year plan, right alongside petting a bear and purchasing a Gucci suit with a briefcase full of $1 bills. To round off the selection, I chose Louque’s album “So Long” because the cover was pretty.
First up is Phil Collins’ “Love Songs: A compilation … Old and New.” At some point in every pop star’s career (usually the later years), an age-old problem must be addressed: What do you do when you need to make a record but you are so far past your prime that you can’t even write bad music anymore? Release a compilation, of course. Already have two greatest hits compilations and two live CDs? Not a problem. Put together some less-memorable songs, add a few live tracks, covers and one track that wasn’t good enough to make it on to a real album, and call it a collection of ballads, rarities and live performances.
The once great, now marginal, Phil Collins scrapes the bottom of the barrel to bring you “Love Songs.” Don’t get me wrong, Phil Collins is one of but a handful of artists (including Iron Maiden, Public Enemy and David Hasselhoff) that I would ever pay more than $30 to see, but this album is nothing more than a thinly veiled attempt to squeeze every last drop of royalty value out of the same old songs. Of the 25 tracks on the two-disc set, 24 have appeared on previous albums. Several of the tracks have also appeared on the “Hits” and “Platinum” compilations. Hmmm … “rarities?” Wouldn’t the plural suggest that more than one of these tracks would be difficult to find? I love you Phil, but perhaps a less misleading title would have been appropriate. Maybe you could have called it, “I’m out of material, but I got bored, and since I’ve sold millions of records, I can do whatever I damn well please.”
Moving on, I like Green Day and I always have, but with the hype surrounding “American Idiot,” I couldn’t wait to tear into this album like a starving, rabid badger into the leg of a careless outdoorsman. I’ve heard the words “punk-rock opera” and “perfect pop-punk record” used to describe “American Idiot,” but considering what is a steady decline in quality since the release of its breakthrough album, “Dookie,” this seemed impossible. Besides, “Idiot” is about as novel as a pop-punk band can get.
Teetering skillfully on the brink of overproduction, “Idiot” doesn’t so much depart from the pop-punk formula as much as create a pastiche of influences using the formula as a framework. The album kicks off with the unapologetically Costello-esque title track, followed by “Jesus of Suburbia,” the first of two tracks that belie an affinity for the rock-operas of Pete Townshend. At about nine minutes apiece, these five-part ditties can be considered nothing less than epic when stacked up against the average four-chord fare of Green Day’s peers. From there, the album goes on to deliver an intelligent but undeniably pop-sensible selection, occasionally flirting with the street-punk sound of Green Day’s youth, with more than a nod and a wink to The Clash, The Kinks, Husker Du and even Meatloaf along the way.
The most notable aspect of this album is that each song possesses its own personality, yet contributes to the whole, which is the mark of a classic. Even lyrically, this album is difficult to criticize. While the title suggests that the listener is about to be subjected to yet another barrage of rehashed, anti-Bush rhetoric, vocalist Billy Joe Armstrong manages to deliver a fairly personalized impression of the post-9/11 paranoia and hysteria, complete with character portraits and a semi-coherent plot line. Fans expecting more of the same will be disappointed, and that’s why this album is good.
Last, and least, is Louque’s album, “So Long,” yet another mediocre turd in the seemingly endless torrent of fecal matter released by Lava Records. If this band were even slightly memorable, it would matter that its name is impossible to pronounce, but don’t worry because you’ll never have any reason to talk about them. Imagine a bland Jack Johnson with electric drums, and your expectations are already way too high.
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