Review Summary: The sound of a band desperately in need of new ideas
The concept record has long been a rite of passage for the weird-chord-wielding, greasy-bearded goons of progressive-rock. Defeater weren’t the first band to pinch the idea and apply it to the hardcore-punk template, but being one of a select fen. The almost-charming simplicity of their first record was now replaced with dull, infantile whinately,
Empty Days & Sleepless Nights is nothing but a retread of old ground, with yet another story of people wallowing in abject misery. The band’s dogged pursuit of some overarching masterpiece draws close attention to the lyrical content, so evennging, about an obviously terrible subject. There was still hope for the Boston outfit, though. The storytelling gimmick had run out steam, but the rest of the formula still had promise. Combined with a reputation for passionate live performances, it was understandable that people’s expectations of the band were high.ly,
Empty Days & Sleepless Nights is nothing but a retread of old ground, with yet another story of people wallowing in abject misery. The band’s dogged pursuit of some overarching masterpiece draws close attention to the lyrical content, so evennging, about an obviously terrible subject. There was still hope for the Boston outfit, though. The storytelling gimmick had run out steam, but the rest of the formula still had promise. Combined with a reputation for passionate live perfoly,
Empty Days & Sleepless Nights is nothing but a retread of old ground, with yet another story of people wallowing in abject misery. The band’s dogged pursuit of some overarching masterpiece draws close attention to the lyrical content, so evennging, about an obviously terrible subject. There was still hope for the Boston outfit, though. The storytelling gimmick had run out steam, but the rest of the formula still had promise. Combined with a reputation for passionate live perfoly,
Empty Days & Sleepless Nights is nothing but a retread of old ground, with yet another story of people wallowing in abject misery. The band’s dogged pursuit of some overarching masterpiece draws close attention to the lyrical content, so evennging, about an obviously terrible subject. There was still hope for the Boston outfit, though. The storytelling gimmick had run out steam, but the rest of the formula still had promise. Combined with a reputation for passionate live perfoly,
Empty Days & Sleepless Nights is nothing but a retread of old ground, with yet another story of people wallowing in abject misery. The band’s dogged pursuit of some overarching masterpiece draws close attention to the lyrical content, so evennging, about an obviously terrible subject. There was still hope for the Boston outfit, though. The storytelling gimmick had run out steam, but the rest of the formula still had promise. Combined with a reputation for passionate live perfo
Unfortunately,
Empty Days & Sleepless Nights is nothing but a retread of old ground, with yet another story of people wallowing in abject misery. The band’s dogged pursuit of some overarching masterpiece draws close attention to the lyrical content, so even those willing to forgive missteps in that department are forced to consider the bilge on offer. Lines like
‘In front of her God, needle in arm, family plot will be filled, perfect end to a tragedy’ should be left in the diaries of the teenage girls that wrote them, not delivered with the aplomb that Archambault does here. Reading some literature or poetry before Chapter 4 arrives might help, but anything other than
Rambo would be a bonus. Though cowed by the mighty concept, the instrumentation is respectable enough throughout, with the patchwork of rhythms from previous albums surviving almost completely intact. ‘Dear Father’ and ‘Empty Glass’ sound lacklustre and tired, but tracks like ‘White Knuckles’ and ‘Waves Crash, Clouds Roll’ boast a vital spark that just begs for repeat listens, with their whipping power chords and popping drums saving the record from complete oblivion.
The main body of the album ends on a sudden cut to silence, which would have been an embarrassing affectation even if the
Sopranos hadn’t already made the same dismal mistake. Defeater’s version at least fits in with the level of storytelling it’s aimed at, drawing a childish close to a childish album. Trying to force a sense of deafening silence proves to be comical, but relatively successful. As if they needed another gimmick, the band tack on four acoustic numbers, unbalancing the record irrevocably. Archambault’s voice and lyrics sound naked here, backed up with half-hearted melodies and forgettable musicianship. ‘I Don’t Mind’ is a passable soft-rock effort, that has no real place in the album as a whole. But then, that’s Defeater’s problem: instead of building on their greatest elements, they just shoe-horn silly quirks into their sound and watch the kids lap it up. There’s still hope for the future, they still have the component parts of something really special, but more than any other band in the genre today, they need to grow up.
