There's a recent online interview with Verbena front-man Scott Bondy where he bemoans the constant use of the word "grunge" to describe his band's sound, and a quick Google of the phrase "Verbena grunge" does yield 450 results (make that 451). But that's bound to happen when you record an album with Dave Grohl, and every Foo Fighters interview circa Verbena's last album (In the Pink) proved Dave all too willing to invoke the mystique and grandeur of a Mr. Cobain in describing Bondy's particular musical talents.
Verbena doesn't do themselves any favors by leading off this album with a referential riff-fest that mimics the current grunge torchbearers, Queen of the Stone Age. Over a confluence of sturm and drang highly reminiscent of Songs For the Deaf's opening salvo, Bondy drawls and preens through a minefield of klutzy nods to various bands ("Let the good times roll/ Down in my rabbit hole/ I've got my Mexican radio/ Me and my rubber soul"-- see also the 2nd verse's mention of a "19th nervous breakdown"). Even the title ("Way Out West") offers a not-so-sly wink towards the rock canon-- it happens to also be the title to a Big Star song. Despite the dubious and derivative nature of this track, it manages to make itself enjoyable enough: if you're able to listen to it with virgin ears, untainted by a priori musical knowledge, all the better. If only the rest of the album were this eager to please.
Instead, the majority of La Musica Negra would have listeners believe Verbena is forgoing the flannel, flange, and pop-friendly self-flagellation of the 1990s for a dive into the gloriously murky and muddied waters that birthed the stuff of Seattle's musical infamy-- Jimi Hendrix in the red house, CCR sailing the green river on the Proud Mary, Black Sabbath's snowblind paranoia. Yeah, I know I forgot to include the garage rock & punk rock influences as part of what made the Melvins and Mudhoney and the better-known Washington State exports worth remembering. Thing is, Verbena forgot, too.
Starting with "Killing Floor (Get Down On It)", and continuing on until the next to last track ("Rememberer"), Verbena plod down an irredeemable path that finds the group doing their best to bore the pants off us with super-produced, blues-infected sprawl (and by "blues" I mean the cream of the crap that contemporaries and disciples of Stevie Ray Vaughn have foisted onto the listening public-- a little stiff shuffle, a little staggered swagger, a lot of mousy mewling). Bondy's particular mewling vaguely recalls the shredded pipes of hard rock stickmen like the Black Crowes' Chris Robinson (AKA He Who Would Be Otis Redding) and Buckcherry's Josh Todd (AKA He Who Would Be Chris Robinson), albeit without the power and propensity to shriek. However, in trying to sound tough and dangerous and drunker than drunk (like any hard rockin' singer dood should, duh), he comes off as bored and listless. In one instance ("I, Pistol"), Bondy's threat "never mess with me" brings to mind the lackadaisical mumbling of Oasis' Liam Gallagher. Sometimes they're fast ("It's Alright, It's Okay"), sometimes they're slow ("Camellia", "Ether"), but without a doubt, they're consistently interminable.
As if this half-ass bastardization isn't enough, the lyrics kick it to another level of absurdity by dropping Jesus, his pop and the bad guy often enough that one might think the Catholic church are shilling a nice chunk of change Verbena's way for all this free press. It's as if the group thinks that giving lip to the man upstairs might grab them some face time with Mr. Satan at the crossroads for a chance to get some of the stuff Robert Johnson got. Sprinkled on top of this crusty confection are song titles that crib from porn flicks ("Devil in Miss Jones"), indie flicks ("It's Allright, It's Okay (Jesus Told Me So)"-- a line prominently featured in American Movie: The Making of Northwestern-- and good old punk zines ("Me and Yr Sister", "White Grrls") to add a little unearned counter-culture flavor to these bland proceedings. Verbena even includes a bit of Kurt Cobain vocal idolatry in "Rememberer", just so folks can remember the very thing Verbena wants them to forget. Producer Rob Schnapf (renowned knob-twiddler on bright & shiny albums from Elliot Smith, Guided By Voices and Beck) does a fine job of giving this slop a modern rock sheen-- check out the fierce introduction to "It's Alright, It's Okay"-- but tying a pretty bow on a pig doesn't keep the damn thing out of the mud.
To make themselves look even worse, Verbena closes the album with "Dirty Goodbyes", a gentle ballad featuring brushed drums, piano, and Bondy singing in an unaffected, casual fashion. The addition of doubled vocals and theremin are an obtrusive reminder of the album's "professional" production values, but this track still outshines everything else on this record by a wide margin. It offers tantalizing hints of what could have been were the band not dead set on coughing up a collection of brittle, craggy debris and passing it off as "rock music."
