Davey Von Bohlen had a spongy growth clipped from his brain around the time his band, the Promise Ring, issued a song called "Make Me a Mixtape." It's understandable that, in his condition, the about-30-years-old lisp-singer would re-evaluate his and the Promise Ring's place in the Grand Scheme. So it's odd, then, that his latest album, which jumps from the one-finger "power" pop of previous records to mellow bells-n-thistles studioscapes, feels more like failed market research than soul searching.
Saves the Day and Dashboard Confessional's success must knot TPR's tight little vintage t-shirts in a bunch. The Promise Ring were way ahead of the curve with that stuff; on their first seven-inch, they sketched the emo template with a mechanical pencil rubbing of Sunny Day Real Estate. Then, over the course of a few gigs at Fireside Bowl, Von Bohlen whittled his songwriting down to the sound of two guitars and two hands clapping. The ba-ba-ba's of Pepsi-shilling sheep replaced the whines and cries of college guys lamenting unbearable distances (154 miles, typically) between upstate public universities and hometown honies. At first, emo purists-- and those kids really knew how to stand for something-- guffawed. But this scene criticism gave way to wholesale copping. Hey, this new minimal guitar pop was easier to play, and more favorable with girls. You could even sing it suckin' on a Dum-Dum. And this Dashboard Confessional tiger bop comes along looking like John Stamos' idea of Social Distortion repeating the embarrassment of TPR's 30 Degrees Everywhere? Calling this trend vanilla is an insult to good ice-cream and yogurt everywhere.
Now into these bands' wake jumps the Promise Ring, arms extended for that golden ring. First thing you notice visually is the absence of the two chubby older guys. "Make Me a Mixtape" and "Happiness Is All the Rage" are hard to swallow coming from guys who should have at least 10G's in their 401Ks. Yes, it was back to Wisconsin for the bassist, and a steady diet of nothing for the guitarist, who now pulls his weight with the artwork and website. Dig the new press kit with the two young ringers. Excuse the cynicism, but this is business and we're talking about a band making their big shot at stardom. Before hearing a note of Wood/Water, knowing the band's history and future at stake, and noting the enlistment of Britpop producer Stephen Street, one'd expect this disc to buzz and bounce like the Rentals or Menswear. Which still doesn't sound very good on paper, but you can't expect Street to magically whip them into the Smiths or Blur.
The humdrum result actually droops and drips as much as the boggy fauna in the artwork. Tracks one through three genre-jump like a band uncertain of which adult-indie trend to follow-- Coldplay or the Flaming Lips or, um, REM's Monster? "Size of Your Life" lifts and weakly leaks the guitar from "What's the Frequency Kenneth?" as digital distortion strains to conceal Von Bohlen's toilet-paper tube larynx. It's a test, not a song. "Stop Playing Guitar" spews nonsensical lyrics: "If I had a dime for/ Every time I should stop playing guitar/ And put my nose in a book/ My head would be healthy/ My guitar would be dusty." Finish that cliché! Would you be rich? Could you barely buy some vended Wahoos? Accumulating dimes has nothing to do with head health. Granted, by putting his nose in a book, Von Bohlen would be protecting his delicate nasal cartiledge with pages, spine, and jacket. But unless his skull is a bank, this has nothing to do with dimes. "Suffer Never" follows, mimicking The Soft Bulletin's "Race for the Prize." It towers over the rest of the album, even if the Delgados, Mercury Rev, Lenola, Aspera, et al rip it off more convincingly.
From this point on, the disc sleepwalks through acoustic hangover ditties. Davey yawns his vocals. The band experiments with keyboards and percussion from beyond the realm of emo. Thematically, the lyrics cover themes of apathy and out-growing. It's an album from a guy questioning whether he wants to make albums anymore-- the soundtrack to rubbing sleep from your eyes. So it slogs and slogs and slogs and slogs, until... oh my god, until "Say Goodbye Good."
Undoubtedly this will be the song everyone talks about. It was crafted for such a response. The track saddles everything that is lamentable about the Promise Ring with everything that is lamentable in overwrought rock albums. A choir and strings swell from typical non-clever wordplay and it's-serious-because-it's-slow plodding. The target is obviously songs in the ilk of Spiritualized, Blur's "Tender," Smog's "Knock Knock," and the epitome, "You Can't Always Get What You Want." Indeed. Mario Caldato Jr. mixes in misplaced electro-phase effects and Quincy McCrary. What, don't know Quincy? He sang back-up for Lionel Richie and Jennifer Love Hewitt.
Smooth soul wails from Q, like an elevator version of Clare Torry on "The Great Gig in the Sky," launching the song into pure parody. For such a supposed introspective record, session singers with no connection to the music betray the band's intent. At this point, Von Bohlen is M.I.A., an admission that something must be done to compensate for the complete lack of melody in his voice. Simply one of the most laughable and misguided songs of all step-up-to-the-big-boys releases, "Say Goodbye Good" immolates all positive new directions from the band. TPR even fail to recognize the finality and place of such Epic Songs on Big Albums and tack on another meaningless solo guitar tune afterwards.
From a commercial standpoint, Wood/Water misses the boat where another predictable pop album like Very Emergency could have hit big. Experimentation is admirable, but you can't put a Sizzler sirloin on a gold plate and call it a filet. What seems like an attempt to market records to a growing thirtysomething market-- guys who groove to Starsailor while Swiffering the hardwood-- sounds entirely miscast. The Promise Ring last sounded like themselves on Nothing Feels Good, and from here there's always idyllictronica.
