Review Summary: Pandora's Musical Box
The Chainsmokers seem to be everyone’s current favourite musical punching bag, and it’s not hard to see why: a combination of boring, repetitive Top 40 hits and the massive airplay of said hits has seen the duo cement themselves as one of the hottest acts in the world, much to the chagrin of many. Having managed to avoid the one-hit wonder status usually afforded to similar acts through a constant bombardment of virtually identical singles offering very little in terms of variety, and two commercially successful yet critically panned EP’s, a full-length album before the fame withered away was almost an inevitability. However, the question on everyone and no-one’s proverbial lips is: Have the Chainsmokers managed to produce something worth listening to? And the answer to that is: No, not really.
Surprisingly enough, the album actually starts off quite promisingly with the piano-led, generically-titled
The One, which plods along quite satisfyingly with its punchy kick and a chorus with that rarest of all gimmick: tasteful vocal chops. But for some reason, despite being the obvious highlight, this is also the shortest track on the album. Following on behind is the odd but catchy pop-rocky
Break Up Every Night, sounding like a mediocre Martin Solveig B-side, although not in a bad way. However, any promise shown on this track is quickly shot down to earth with the lyric
‘She wants to break up every night, then tries to *** me back to life’, which reads like the world’s first Ed Sheeran/Cannibal Corpse mashup. From then on out the album is rather a bleak affair. It rarely reaches bottom of the barrel territory, save for single
Something Just Like This (featuring an extremely lifeless Chris Martin, even by his standards) and closer
Last Day Alive (featuring everybody’s favourite bro-country sensation, Florida Georgia Line), but there’s not really much worth waiting for. Some good vocal features from Emily Warren, Jhene Aiko and unknown Louane salvage their respective tracks from complete forgettability, and provide a momentary distraction from the distinctly mediocre vocals of frontman Drew Taggart, but do little as a whole to make this album worth remembering, and that leads me on to the album’s biggest downfall.
The problem is, there is nothing exciting about nearly all of the twelve songs present; no unexpected anthemic chorus, no stunning vocal, no pretty much anything. Within thirty seconds of each track, most people will have the not-so-uncanny ability to predict pretty much the entirety of the chorus. And it’s this predictability, more so than the awkward vocals, the often cringy lyrics and the occasionally downright awful track, that cancels out any catchy hook or neat little chord progression that might have made this album worth your time.
Too safe for the club, but too loud for your morning commute; if this album was a job it would be your standard nine to five. Sure, you’re not cleaning up *** for a living, but you can’t help feeling you could be doing something else much more worthwhile.
