Review Summary: Deuce kicks off his utterly pointless solo career with an utterly awful album - recommended to nobody.
Aron Erlichman claims his departure from Hollywood Undead was the result of “musical differences.” Now to the humble bystander such as myself, a statement like this would imply that our friend Erlichman wanted to take his musical career in a direction so different from Hollywood Undead’s sound that it simply would not work unless he continued onwards strictly as a solo artist. At the very least, I’d expect the man’s solo material to have at least
some “musical differences” when compared to his old band – after all, that was the reason for him backing out and creating this album, right?
Maybe I’m missing something here – but why is it, then, that I am finding it nearly impossible to differentiate this at all from a Hollywood Undead release? It’s a 50 minute, rambling, repetitive and utterly ridiculous collection of washed-out and flat out stupid hip hop/rock songs. Maybe I could forgive “Deuce” for his complete lack of musical evolution if his formula was effective enough to justifiably repeat, but, well, to put it simply, it’s not. It’s nowhere near. The musicianship is average at it’s absolute highest peaks. The songwriting is pathetic. Originality is completely lacking anywhere. The vocals are whiny and annoying, and for a man who raps so much, “Deuce” really can’t rap at all.
And yet
Nine Lives is so bad that none of the shamefully abysmal points covered above even come close to being as mind-numblingly awful as this album’s absolute worst quality; it’s lyrical content. Lyrics certainly don’t make an album, but they can sure as hell break one (although in this case, the album is already broken – all Deuce is really doing with the lyrics here is the equivelant of beating an already-dead corpse into a bloody pulp with a sledgehammer). For Christ’s sake, the album opens with “All the girls in the pretty little panties,” and continues on through such gems as “No one likes me, but I don’t like them!” and “You just my west coast f*ck buddy.” For reasons unbeknownst to the sane mind, Erlichman seems to have decided to craft his entire lyrical theme around arrogance, perverse, over-inflated self importance and the sort of stupidity even Nickelback have failed to sink to. Of course, Deuce sobers up to offer some touchingly mature words of wisdom on “Freaky Now,” covering such sensitive topics as domestic violence (Pull my hair/Scratch my back/Beat me like Rhianna!) and offering up his own unique take on politics (I love...black cock like Obama) within the space of two quick lines.
So what are we left with? This
could have just been another boring, predictable “rap metal” release to please the masses, but somehow Erlichman’s idiocracy has single-handedly dragged the whole thing down into the deepest darkest depths of musical hell. It’s quite clear this man was better off with a few other band members to, er,
dilute him (Which is saying something, considering Hollywood Undead was pretty damn dumb too). His lyrics are the intellectual equivelant of a bacterium at a gang bang, his vocal range is downright pathetic, his rapping is below par, his songwriting is predictable at best and his whole attitude towards music in general – and thus his impression on this album – seems to revolve around over-inflated self-importance and confidence. He’s not likeable in the slightest and he’s not even a good musician; I think it’s safe to say nobody can hold high hopes for his solo career. How long can it, truthfully, last? Three albums? Four? Really, it’s just a matter of time.
