Review Summary: Dancing with myself
As 2022 limps into its end-stage, whether the public has, or ever will become wearied of pop rappers dropping pop-punk revival albums still remains to be seen. Yungblud is the latest of that scene to draw from the power chords and gang vocals of yesteryear and drop what is now de rigueur for any artist with a face tattoo and a Xanax addiction. But here, instead of Blink and Simple Plan, it’s My Chemical Romance and Billy Idol that are being used as the template for YUNGBLUD’s confessional dramatics, and used less as an influence than as a full-on blueprint. As such, the metric that YUNGBLUD can be judged by isn’t so much how it stands on its own merits, but how well he’s able to take the sound he’s so blatantly ripping off and make it his own, or at least make it say something relevant to the post-ironic sincerity of the tiktok generation. While this endeavor isn’t a total failure, mostly due to the gen-z sensibilities the lyrics are so pointedly aiming at, YUNGBLUD is still a lukewarm, sterilized reheating of yesterday’s comfort food: any enjoyment from this is going to be from its primary source, and any musical resonance with its target audience outside of the lyrics is only going to come from not knowing where its sound is coming from.
It’s not the total lack of originality alone that does YUNGBLUD in; after all, many a shameless ripoff has managed to carry itself through sheer panache and a knowing wink towards its source material. But at no point in the album did I feel like I was listening to an homage so much as a cheap fraud hoping nobody would pull back the curtain to reveal the dusty copy of Rebel Yell sitting in the wings. It’s the artistically bereft, paint-by-numbers sensibility that is YUNGBLUD’s greatest stumbling block, as each musical element is slapped on according to what best fits the template of tepidly affirming stadium pop-punk-revival-revival that is currently trending. It’s an album that is most notable for an almost total commitment to avoiding any attempts at something that doesn’t blatantly bite off of a different artist, most prominently Idol and Way, but also the synthey-stadium-rock of Neon Trees, the over-sensitive club anthemics of post-apocalypse Ed Sheeran and Harry Styles’ own brand of 80’s revival. It’s all packaged so cynically, and so flagrantly, that any thought that the artist is being influenced by what went before goes out the window in favor of “holy shit that is shameless”.
This isn’t to say that YUNGBLUD is totally bereft of all charm. As an example of the pop-punk/80s revival, the record is far, far from the worst offender (which admittedly amounts to saying that Putin is far from the worst invader of Ukraine), but the Billy-Idol-by-way-of-Gerard-Way schtick is carried off with enough charisma and energy that a listener could at least see why it’s appealing to its target audience; no doubt these songs will be screamed along to at festivals for some years to come. While the production is sterile and cramped, there's enough energy and genuine emotion going on her that the album doesn't feel completely lifeless; The Funeral and Memories in particular are at least memorable. The underlying theme of positivity, self-affirmation and acceptance is welcome as well, if often on-the-nose to the point of being wince-inducing (the heavily auto-tuned refrain of “it’s alright mate, I cry too” was probably the worst offender). But as a turn from MGK’s “I’m a nihilist fuckup, please pay attention to me” style, it’s at least a little refreshing. As with other recent records of its ilk, whether it’s going to have any legacy comparable to its source material is highly doubtful. But for what it is, in all its blatant riding of current trends and total lack of originality, I couldn’t help but feel like my time with Yungblud wasn’t a complete and total waste.
