Review Summary: The album that shouldn’t exist.
The Album is an album (let’s be clear about that) that pops but doesn’t pop. They attempt to pretend they’re just simple bois that ran out of the budget for a decent album cover, but we know the truth. They are the bloody Jonas Brothers and no man will stop them from getting another forgettable album released. The art indicates the album’s problem immediately. It is bland, basic, and back to the root of the derivative pop tree that gives life to copy-paste pop artists; such artists shrivel and die when the next season emerges. I usually love trees but not this time.
Let’s get disco. Nay, let’s get gospel. Many failed music attempts and genre wishes are included in the album-album (thankfully not a double album) with enough simple pop to suggest they timemachine-d back to the 90s. They don’t have the chops to get as funky as they wanna, sadly, sounding often like a soulless, evaporating Bruno Mars. That’s something that average pop artists do: people with no original bones in their overproduced body. They also don’t have instruments — much, anyway. Every instrument is played like their mom yelled at them to turn the volume down: “and please, for the love of god, stop playing the damn bass, it gives me a headache!!”.
A few songs here actually have a good beat, and a bit of care into keeping audiences awake. Waffle House goes fairly hard, with a classic, bright mint toothpaste Jonas Brothers chorus. More of that was needed, because the rest of the album waffles without enough sugar syrup. The stretch of the first three tracks is not encouraging. The first track suggests that a catchy album may follow — ahhhh no. The next two tracks are boring enough to skip every time they pop up. Not impressive for one of the larger pop groups of these unfortunate times where vocals and beats meet in instant pop hits these days. Where is the zest? The creativity? Why aren’t I dancing?
There you have it. Another weak willy pop release that you’re supposed to be jazzed about. Come get your tickets and listen to these men sing in falsetto for hours! Come hear the death of pop! Hear their computer assisted falsetto mutterings! Fuck this, peace.
