Review Summary: The audacity to tell their fans to “move the fuck on” amazes me.
Despite having composed many catchy singles as they evolved their musical style in their albums after Meteora
, Linkin Park have long since lost any touch of originality. Even their 2014 return to “hard rock”, The Hunting Party
, failed to spark up any interest with tired fans, though it felt like the right direction for the band after all the aimless wandering of the previous albums. Their singles for this latest album, One More Light
, were spectacularly lackluster and severely disappointing to fans of all kinds, and each song lowered the expectations of any maturity in the songwriting or composition – when leader singer Chester Bennington was confronted for the lack of teen angst in his lyrics, he shot back that “he was 41”. His words completely contradict the fact that his band’s latest music blatantly panders to lovesick, partying millennials and has no semblance of experience or creativity thrown in it. Witness the boy bandification of Linkin Park!
Each song is an overproduced mess of hi-hat shakers, syncopated kick drums, swelling synths, and cut-up pitches shifted vocals all structured in the dullest intro-verse-chorus-repeat sequencing imaginable. The music clearly is influenced by Twenty One Pilots and The Chainsmokers – to be frank I’d rather listen to the garbage that DJ duo comes up with than hear a vapid derivative of it performed by an aging former nu-metal band. There are a bare few moments throughout the album that slightly engage a listener, such as the intro sections for Talking to Myself
or Sharp Edges
where phased out synths neatly compliment guitar passages. Chester’s and Mike’s vocal delivery, as always, are impeccable to the extent where they seem plastic and overproduced, and carry through otherwise tiring songs such as Nobody Can Save Me
with mild choruses. Drummer Rob Bourdon’s, guitarist Brad Delson’s and bassist Dave Farrell’s apparent absence in any form of songwriting jeopardizes all potential the album’s instrumentals could have had and leave room for tepid sing-alongs. Expect to hear repeated drum loops as Chester moons on over some unsophisticated interpretation of teenage romanticism, leading up to the cringiest of bass drops and choruses, all unable to make you tap your feet or thrust your arms in the air. Any more elaboration of the quality of music you'll hear on this would be a sin for me and a waste of your time.
This is music a teenager might record on their DAW late at night and then delete upon hearing it the next day. This junk is slow enough to not even warrant repetitions on fraternity parties despite those being the target venues. This album would make a perfect soundtrack for a film of the band members circle-jerking off to a large pile of record sales as their record labels applaud them on. It sounds like the laziest attempt to polish a turd and bury it in a chest, and then pretend younger generations are simple enough to dig down to revere it as a catchy pop album. This is an album The Chainsmokers could write within an hour and then decide to quietly release as an EP. This is music I'm glad I didn't torrent and instead just used Spotify with advertisements to check out. I wouldn't even shit to this music because it makes me constipated. This is the dying breath of an uninspired band so exhausted that they couldn't even rehash the energy their early work demonstrated. This is the musical equivalent of Tommy Wiseau’s The Room, minus all the hilarious memes that could be spawned out of it. It’s unsophisticated, unoriginal and boy is it a marvelous fail at changing your genre as a musical act.