There are few topics more boring than the neo-New York sound of the new rock millennium, and few attacks less challenging than lobbing (more) half-assed jokes about skinny, over-privileged white boys sporting vintage t-shirts and pencil-leg Ramones jeans. As part of a burgeoning metropolitan scene heralded more for its influences than its innovations, the French Kicks have long been served their fair share of glib, mostly meaningless descriptors, most of which include some comment about their addresses, pants, or haircuts.
By way of spiky L.E.S. fashion, or just via simple geography, the Kicks have always seemed to fit rather nicely into the Strokes/Interpol/Walkmen scene, despite not sounding a whole lot like any of those bands. Consider, then, how the French Kicks' heralded hometown has since become both the band's most efficient publicist and most formidable enemy: Fans of NYC new-wave pilfering inevitably flock towards them, but quickly figure out that, save their outfits, the French Kicks might as well be from anywhere-- and that, unfortunately, their music is just as expressionless.
On their 2002 full-length debut, One Time Bells, the French Kicks gave up sloppy garage noodling for hyper-stylized post-punk, maintaining just enough of their scrappy beginnings to lend their first long-player some youthful punch. The Trial of the Century is a far more lush, lilting effort than its predecessor, ultimately destroyed by the monotony of its sweeping pop swells: Essentially, Trial is just one semi-interesting idea (retro-tinged, Smiths-influenced, synth-friendly rock) repeated 11 times-- and no matter how able or committed the French Kicks may be to that lone notion, their conviction alone can't make their sophomore record feel any less tedious. Falsetto harmonies, pumping synths, and stay-put vocals tumble out in waves, while Nick Stumpf's thunderous drumming and brother Lawrence's sticky bass push everything on and on and on.
Opener "One More Time" is the record's most dynamic track, with bouncy, puttering percussion, gently yawning synths, giggly twitters, and fey, sighing vocals, while the almost-interesting "Oh Fine" starts off with hand-claps, melts into drums, and then kicks up a lowly bassline, Nick Stumpf's vocals gently sliding in to purr a gloriously high-pitched, "We'll be fine/ She'll be fine/ He'll be fine," chorus. Meanwhile, "The Falls" wouldn't feel too out of place on The Strokes' Room on Fire, although Stumpf's vocals never quite reach Casablancan heights of bored disaffection. The insurmountable problem with the rest of the record is that most of the tracks feel entirely indistinguishable, their retro-styling and pompadour crooning melting into one giant song (see also some borderline formulaic quirks-- opening with prickly bits of percussion, or always building into high, harmonized choruses).
The French Kicks shouldn't be forced to swallow the inevitable NYC-backlash alone, but The Trial of the Century doesn't help anyone argue that there's something new and compelling about low-idea retro-rock. Having already proven themselves capable players, all the French Kicks have to do now is figure out how to channel their skills into something a little more remarkable.
