Review Summary: A big fat nothing burger from country pop's preeminent duo.
Given their youthful presentation, it can be easy to forget that Dan + Shay have been around the block for quite a while. The two men (Dan Smyers and Shay Mooney) that make up the country pop duo are both in their mid-to-late thirties, and have staked a strong presence at radio and streaming since their formation in 2013. They readily admit to being heavily influenced by Rascal Flatts (who y'all know I love talking about) and have functioned as sort of a stand-in for that trio in the genre's mainstream arena over the last several years, during which Rascal Flatts has either been broken up or struggling to regain the footing at radio they had before. I mean to say; Dan + Shay are intended spiritual successors. The bevy of artistic influences is the same, the pop-tinged melodrama and histrionics are the same, and the lyrical content is a step or two above the mentally impoverished fodder that the genre has elevated in the last two decades. They're not constantly sprinting out of their way to rattle off painfully empty cultural signifiers the way an Aldean or a Bryan will, but that's not saying much at this point. The Flatts comparison is also important to keep in mind because Dan + Shay, truthfully, can't hold a candle to them. While Mooney pretty ostensibly attempts to mirror Gary LeVox (I can't count the times a friend or loved one has mistaken D+S for RF), his voice lacks some of the distinctiveness or richness. That's not to say he's not a capable vocalist, and he and Smyers make for a good pair. They end up acting as sort of a pop-friendly Brooks and Dunn, with Mooney being the clear lead vocalist the way Ronnie Dunn is for that duo. I think the issue is not that Dan + Shay are noble imitators, but rather that their music is often too damn boring to care about.
Their latest studio album
Young opens with its quaint title track, which implores the listener to not take life for granted and to savor each day as it comes. It's a perfectly suitable message, and it yanked a few re-listens out of me, with its subdued composition, and a vocal turn from D+S that boasts of warmth and fullness. The problem is, these songs are dime a dozen; I can name you several such songs that Rascal Flatts have put to record. Brad Paisley's "Letter to Me" and Kenny Chesney's "Don't Blink" (both 2007) also addressed this kind of subject matter in more poignant and impactful fashion. What's more is that neither of those two are really eye-popping vocalists. It's nice for what it is, but it's bringing absolutely nothing new to the table, even if its gentle application of the steel guitar helps make it a pleasant enough affair. In a similar vein, the nominally bouncy "Marry You Again" is straight out of the Flatts playbook, making love sound easy with a bright vocal and even some subtle subversions of the kind of compositional template I'd think that trio to tackle. It swaps out what absolutely would have been Joe Don Rooney's roaring lead guitar for softly crashing key and synth washes. Again, file it under 'it's good, but I've heard it before.'
As we traverse through the rest of the album, it's all perfectly serviceable slice-of-life stuff ("Dogs In Our Twenties", "Bible In The Truck" especially), with adept vocals and harmonies, but it seemingly has no greater purpose beyond keeping you docile while you shop for groceries. The only song that really jumps at your attention happens to be the one true clunker, coming in the form of "The Price of Love," the overly blown out closing cut. It begins with string arrangements so dreary you'd swear they'd been pulled from a funeral, before leading into a lead vocal from Mooney that reeks of overseriousness. The bridge then takes the entire first verse from "Young" and directly copies and pastes it. I'm not kidding. When you need to lift lyrics from another song on the same damn album to fill up your story, I think that's a telltale sign that you've got something that's equal parts undercooked and unimaginative.
Young is not a
bad album by any stretch, but it is so lacking in creativity or interest that it directly inhibits your ability to enjoy it. As mentioned, this is destined to gain heavy rotation at your local Walmart, where physical copies of the album tucked in the electronics department collect dust alongside an ocean of Taylor Swift vinyl. I really started to give up on this duo when their Justin Bieber duet "10,000 Hours" began dominating radio across multiple formats to the point of overplay. 10,000 hours equate to a little over one calendar year, not quite the swoon-inducing statement of love these guys probably thought it was. This is boyfriend country, which I'll gladly settle for if it's my only means of avoiding having to watch Lee Brice swap spit with cod at the TPUSA halftime show. But as we discussed, that's a woefully low bar to clear.
Young is a well-intentioned, if hopelessly
average, set of tunes.
