Review Summary: Yeah, no.
Emotion is silly these days; individuals either have too much of it or desire to shove it aside. Disinterest is a calculated strategy for social acceptance, after all—recall every brooding loner character adored in fiction—so pledging to such indifference is valuable. Sardonic post-punk acts have erected empires off of sly cynicism that drips off of droning riffs and monolithic soundscapes, the immeasurable weight of a careless despair hanging over. Yet a masterpiece this particular album is not; instead, every negative stereotype of indie as a movement resides deep in the belly of
Emphatically No. It is the sort of experience that conjures up throngs of people waxing poetically about the merits of their favorite band, Dogpoop Bernardagee, who certainly have never existed outside of the realm of imagination. There is a distinct lack of strength to individual tunes as though they too had become achingly self-aware, realizing their destiny as coffee shop background noise. This sounds harsh when addressing a given collective, but the history of music is a vast one. As such, relegating labors to that of the “apathy is my aesthetic” kid in creative writing class feels like a borrowed, tired tactic, and one that aspiring artists should learn to avoid if a wider audience is in the cards. A bland ennui routine creeps about in lyrics that try desperately to be tongue-in-cheek despite being deficient in the essential subtlety to do so, simultaneously committing to it too often for it to be a novelty. Instruments that possess standard directions follow suit, never submitting anything beyond the ordinary motions for the category of choice. As lovable as Cheekface’s latest disc
could be in theory, it never moves beyond recognizable genre motifs that obstruct the LP from earning higher marks. The result is a project that aims to have fun and underachieve, making it a difficult work to be involved with if enhanced quality is desired.
The initial pitfall comes in the barrier between the group’s output and the listener’s ability to relate to it on a deeper level. This is never a necessity, naturally—a plethora of releases have aimed specifically for straightforward enjoyment and nothing else—but what the California set attempt to present here fails at both endeavors. As aforementioned, proceedings begin and end as frustratingly dry, absent of anything new in the indie playbook or an iota of emotional investment. Lyrical and vocal contributions immediately damage the record; the way the production is styled—scaled-back, instruments bereft of punch—inevitably pushes the singing ahead of other elements, and the performance delivered here cannot carry a tune’s weight. The apathy and unoriginality combine in the slog that is opening number “Listen to Your Heart. No,” which features an entirely lifeless vocal showcase and an equally dire supporting section. Such is the thesis of the effort’s methodology: utilizing blasé, uninspiring vocals to clash with upbeat indie compositions and prose that aims to strike a chord with its audience, be it on the merits of its humor or offbeat sincerity. In an album that craves hooks at the same time, this decision is an Achilles Heel, creating a desert of emotional deprivation. There’s no cleverness in the monotone presentation on “Call Your Mom”; it simply comes across as insipid for the sake of all things insipid. An uncomfortable contrast comes with the jangly guitar riff, a chorus that limps into existence, and brief female vocals in the background that urgently vie to inject a degree of joy. Unimaginative arrangements usher the track to the bottom of a barrel soon to become cluttered with more duds.
Writing loses whatever power it could obtain when displayed in a manner so devoid of spirit. Listeners are subjected to ceaseless attempts at laughter, pretentious remarks uttered in a
nudge nudge sort of way, and random stabs at legitimate earnestness too fleeting to appreciate. Little nuggets such as “Life is long like a CVS receipt” from “Wedding Guests” is able to check off every box: it takes a pop culture reference, because
by golly those receipts really are long!, and pokes at its audience—lol long receipt go brrrrr, amirite? –and then tries to add complementary meaning in context, with the crux of the entry revolving around a convoluted commentary on life being long, full of faults, personal flaws, and hardships that can only be covered up by mindless pleasures. When uttered by an individual whose lack of charisma would make the Terminator blush (Hell, Arnold had droves more in comparison
playing a robot), then the line falls flat. As much of a nitpick this may seem for one phrase, it endures across the album, making it a sort of disease that infects an unexpectedly tedious 34-minute duration. Consider the subsequent “(I Don’t Want to Go to) Calabasas,” which features a handful of lyrical blunders:
“Here's my TED Talk about washing the driveway
People do it wrong I'm gonna teach you the right way
Pink Starbursts only when observing the Lord's day
Your parents' pride and joy”
Whatever this is intended to mean is completely unbeknownst to anyone outside of whoever penned it, and the sheer ridiculousness of it leaves room for the assumption that it is mere nonsense—something Isaac Brock could pull off, perhaps, but the shot here feels incredibly forced for a cheap gag. Located in Los Angeles County, Calabasas is considered one of the richest cities in the United States, but what this means when regarding the proper cleaning procedures on one’s driveway is anyone’s guess. Discontent with only one poor stanza, Cheekface venture to lay down a second:
“I only want to talk to people who already know how lame I am
And is con man really short for condiment man?
Boyfriend with a soul patch, I know, I know, it's serious.”
It’s possible that a charming frontman could take confusing, absurd words and string together an exhibition that infuses pleasant personality. Ben Folds made a career in part out of his genuine writing that liberally toyed with human struggles, happiness, and random situations. The difference here is that Ben Folds is a master at ingratiating himself with a given crowd, artfully employing his nerdy outcast persona and authoritative, albeit vulnerable voice to his work. Jeff Rosenstock applies the selfsame approach to his brand of punk, and he’s carved out a niche with it. Because Cheekface lean heavily on apathy, such a connection is condemned to expire prematurely, baffling lyrical choices lingering as exactly the sum of their parts. When stronger content
does come about, the prose around it makes for similarly inexplicable tonal spaghetti, like the following excerpt from “No Connection”:
“I got blood under my fingernails from scratching my head
We got a lot of croutons, so we better make this salad
My new therapy is just thinking about my friends
(Maybe that's what it feels like to miss someone).”
How and why food makes its way in here is predictably unknown. It is possible the singer was hungry at this juncture and saw Applebee’s out of the studio window. It is more realistic to presume quirkiness weaseled its way into the number since it is Cheekface’s sole rabbit to pull out of their hat, depending on a shtick that runs out of gas in a few notes. Further instances are easy to find provided the listener somehow maintains their attention before succumbing to the unyielding aridness. With these examples made more audible than any other variable, it is impossible to avoid their obvious and multiple imperfections.
Instrumentation requires no detailed analysis beyond this point, as such an undertaking would necessitate the arrangements to contain detail in the first place. Already having to battle against the singing additions to be heard in the mix, the guitar, bass, and percussion consistently demonstrate a level of competency that could never shine past a backdrop status. Should this have been in service to sustain a commanding vocalist, these shortcomings could be forgiven slightly if only due to the ability of the singer in question. With Mr. Roboto at the helm, the lackluster compositions cannot be overlooked, especially within a disc that stacks its runtime with choruses. It takes more than a strong performer to turn a refrain into an earworm, and with both sides of the band descending into agonizingly dreary apathy, no single hit is created. All tracks find themselves in a set formula from which they navigate, never deviating in any progressive manner, consistently leading to the same conclusions. Set apart from the pack, “Emotional Rent Control” is a microcosm of the LP that surrounds it, a plain guitar riff and consequentially average bass trudging along as the drumming does enough to be considered drumming. The chorus pops up a few times without ever introducing anything to capture greater interest, with the refrain itself lacking a robust groove or catchy vocal line. It’s a tall order to establish separation from this entry to the succeeding “Big Big Friend,” the band’s plan unwavering as another disposable guitar meanders into the fray, a hint of gusto emerging in a scratchy solo that is given too little time to make an impact. Then there is “Do You Work Here?”, the group opting to create a semblance of atmosphere with spacey guitars, yet the execution is poor given an unsurprisingly impotent refrain and unexciting climax. At their peak, Cheekface can manage to be a Modest Mouse D-side, with the rest quickly sidelined as unsalvageable.
The choices the Los Angeles trio dedicated themselves to do not compute into a worthwhile experience. Twisting expectations or crafting tonal disagreements can both be very effective tools when implemented in an inventive way, though Cheekface are severely behind in this regard. Woeful lyricism, a correspondingly languid vocal offering, and weak songwriting—the instruments being samples would not be a shock to discover—construct a foundation that cannot uphold any approach. If apathy is the goal, then the happy-go-lucky indie conventions were not the correct accompaniment. If hook-laden rockers were the objective instead, the singing approach would desperately demand alteration, as well as the forgettable leads that populate the release. With detachment at the forefront, the fact this discussion does
not concern post-punk is telling;
Emphatically No. tries too little to be too much at once, thus equating to a scattered product that somehow manages to be easy to solve as a listener. Of all to be said about the collective’s sophomore effort, declaring it as a dime-a-dozen copycat is inescapable. Sure, there is some sort of mood in the gang’s “whatever, man” attitude as they toss paper airplanes from the back of the class, telling in-jokes nobody around them quite understands. A record as vapid as Cheekface’s newest offering would fit right at home for anyone searching for music that does not try since not trying is an atmosphere, a disposition to cling to as a way of viewing the world in shades of gray, totally removing oneself from
the system because that’s really cool!(?) However, the history of music is a vast one. As such, there is a multitude of competing artists that all strive to ensnare the attention of a passing audiophile. Amidst this crowded amalgamation of indie artists, there’s no reason why Cheekface would ever appear outside of the boundaries of a bustling coffee shop. Apathy over a cup of caffeine seems a generous fate.
