The cover depicts slumberous robots snuggling on a sofa, presumably watching banal television. Perhaps they’re sluggishly digesting a Biggie Meal in a fast-food booth. A mechanized cupid hovers over their shoulders. Hues of gray and pastel depict the scene with high school strokes. It’s fitting, since the music contained within merely cranks the greaseless gears of insipid, mind-numbingly uninspired, adolescent pop, bringing humanity a few inches closer to self-wrought destruction through resignation. When did pop become the Attention Deficit Disorder of rock music? These days, parents and teachers quickly diagnose students with A.D.D., when 90% of the time they’re simply lazy, drug-hazed, or stupid. It’s an insult to the children who truly suffer from A.D.D. Similarly, being “pop” has granted bands the luxury of not trying. And society merely throws record deals and Ritalin at the problem.
Really, what qualifies as pop? Anything. If something is released to the general public and is theoretically consumable, it’s pop. No longer will the excuse, “Oh, but it’s just pop,” be accepted. Erase that hate-mail. Hamburger Helper is pop. My sneaker from Target is pop. A Sprite jingle is pop. A coin-dispensed rubber glow-in-the-dark bouncing ball shaped like an alien head is pop. Naturally, I can’t justly criticize anyone for indulging in pop without being hypocritical. But look around—we’re suspended in a homogenous gel of pop. Pop is free. You don’t need to spend $12.99 on an R.D.A. of pop. Turn on the radio. Tune to any station marketed towards white people between the ages of 12 and 27. You’re going to hear a song that can easily be substituted for any track off Something to Write Home About.
Is it so much to ask for a shred of originality in music? A frustrated “Wrragh!” from the singer, or an unexpected car alarm would at least trigger a central nervous system response in the listener. The Get Up Kids write from assumption, not passion. Each song is about missing, wanting, or needing a girl who is typically “a world away.” I’d like to get into the impossibilities and improbabilities of two people actually being “a world away,” but I’ll let the obviously empty cliche fight for itself. I’d rather focus on meaningless lyrics masquerading as poetic insight, such as “I smuggle myself into new nationalities.” One can not smuggle oneself, excepting by stowing away in an antique schooner—and those don't exist anymore. Further, a “nationality,” which is an adjective or notion of self set by political boundaries, is not a physical object which can accept smuggled cargo. These flaws would be easier to swallow if delivered with soul or conviction. Instead we’re left with the nasal whining of another pompadoured youth who recently received his degree from the Bratty School of Caucasian Nostril Singing, along with his classmates, the Guy from Lit, the Guy from Smash Mouth, the Guy from Blink-182, and the Guy from Showoff.
The implementation of keyboards and acoustic guitars is predictable and unimpressive. Tinkling keys behind styrofoam riffs attempt to “mature” the sound. Instead, the clinical production scrubs the rock down to a smooth grain of clear sand which wedges unreachable into the crotch. Only after a repetitive process that borders on “brainwashing” can the melodies even began to tunnel into your brain like a chigger.
The Get Up Kids quickly point to the large record deals they turned down to “stay independent.” Most labels urged the band to re-record “Don’t Hate Me” from the band’s debut. So the Kids “kept it real” and recorded an entire album of songs which follow the same formula, yet never reach the quasi-memorable qualities of a radio hit. Yet, a merchandise catalog falls out of Something to Write Home About upon opening. The band’s decision to not sign with a major just makes them seem financially inept in addition to their musical shortcoming. You guys, just sell out! Independent music does not need you. Pick out those leather pants and jump into the mill.
