“Cry Baby” is only the Neighbourhood’s fifth-most popular song on Spotify and it has 45.3 million streams—are you responsible for any of them? Did you know that they took Travis Scott, BROCKHAMPTON’s Kevin Abstract, and the 1975 on their first American tours? Did you know that their fans identify as “Hoodlums” and that you missed your chance to buy a Hoodlum beanie at Urban Outfitters? Do you know that they’re not even British?
There’s a decent chance the answer for all of the above is “no,” and that’s why the L.A. band’s self-titled third LP is singularly focused on a market share that’s been dwindling ever since they emerged out of their KROQ petri dish sporting a black-and-white visual motif, a severe and vowel-less 2013 typeface (“THE NBHD”), and their colossal No. 1 hit, “Sweater Weather.” It was a bummer summer jam that balanced the attraction of beautifully doomed California stereotypes with an anti-California message that the rest of the country could get behind. Lead singer Jesse Rutherford might’ve pictured himself as a damaged rock star trying to write a Lana Del Rey song, but he just had the fortune of being a few years ahead of G-Eazy. And so the more pressing question five years later on The Neighbourhood: Who do these guys think they are?
Imagine if the Chainsmokers didn’t at least have the decency to be as crass and shameless as their music in real life. Or, imagine if Halsey and Khalid didn’t hard-sell their voice-of-a-generation pitch to clueless cultural gatekeepers with titles like “New Americana” and “American Teen.” Or, imagine Twenty One Pilots chose a Benz instead of a backpack. Or, just imagine a combination of all of the above that somehow feels less organic.
The band’s 2013 debut I Love You took itself way too seriously, but it was hard to hate as the Neighbourhood tried their luck with chillwaved R&B, cloud rap, and major-label indie rock like a desperately horny frat boy at last call. By 2015’s Wiped Out!, the Neighbourhood had their eureka moment: They are, in sound and spirit, the guys who wanted to recreate the Weeknd songs that sampled Beach House without the attorney’s fees. At the very least, the Neighbourhood are proof that alt-rock still exists, and that new bands have about as much use for the sounds of the past as 03 Greedo and Lil Xan do for Tupac. The Neighbourhood is as ponderous as any forgotten post-grunge also-ran record selling for one cent on Amazon. Rutherford strains on every single line under the weight of substance abuse, his traumatic upbringing (“Always feel inadequate/The same way my daddy did”), and the obligations of being a beautifully damned sex symbol. But instead of the herniated howls of Eddie Vedder or Kurt Cobain, Rutherford models the gaslight anthems of Drake and Abel Tesfaye, guys who will say or do anything to get you into bed and turn it swiftly into a therapist’s couch.
If you take the Hoodlum annotators at their word, much of Rutherford’s self-pity stems from his band’s inability to create anything that has stuck like “Sweater Weather” and it’s not for lack of trying. The Neighbourhood has at least six producers and 18 writing credits making them, at any given time, one degree of separation from Scarlett Johansson, White Lung, G-Dragon, and Maroon 5. Even with all of the topshelf talent on hand, The Neighbourhood bizarrely opens with the sputtering, AutoTuned blog-pop throwback of “Flowers.” The Neighbourhood are almost deserving of empathy here—this is the best Columbia’s money can buy and Rutherford can do little but watch his band’s moment pass them by.
A third of The Neighbourhood already appeared on the band’s two recent EPs and its every thwack of a processed, priapic snare is a reminder of just about every pop-rap trend you’re trying to forget. “Sadderdaze” and “Too Serious” litter profoundly dopey wordplay over acoustic guitars and can’t even beat Post Malone at this game. Their actual attempt at trap-pop is so offbeat it actually makes this kind of production sound novel again (“Revenge”). With the occasional triplet flows and sotto voce ad-libs, Rutherford often sounds like the Hoodlum type personified, that guy from the suburbs rapping along to Migos in his car, hoping not to be caught in the act. Otherwise, the bulk of The Neighbourhood is every bit as inane and interchangeable as the last Tory Lanez or Travis Scott song you heard, but the Neighbourhood are the only ones who still get to play KROQ’s annual Weenie Roast festival.
That’s not the Neighbourhood’s fault. These guys have done nearly everything in their power to opt out of rock music, including commissioning a mixtape called #000000 & #ffffff featuring Casey Veggies, Dej Loaf, Danny Brown, and YG. And while there is no amount of public shaming that will stop white rock bands from doing hip-hop covers, you’d think someone who has personally collaborated with rappers would have the good sense to choose something other than “Me and My Bitch” for a Red Bull session. Or at the very least, to not sing, “pussy stay wet like she was mixed with Mexican” with an utterly straight face. Not that anyone should take this as a mandate for more of the same, but “Me and My Bitch” and the rest of #000000 & #ffffff feels way more honest than The Neighbourhood trying to convey gravity by swapping out a This Guy Fucks pose for Sad as Fuck t-shirt—it looks like the last time they had any fun.
