The Vines. Four young guys from Australia determined to tear it up in the States, their end goal being the glorious egotrip of international rock stardom. Now, let's be fair-- most guys starting bands regularly entertain notions of 'hitting the bigtime,' and there isn't a goddamn thing wrong with that. It's just that few are content to play it quite so safe. Even the metal guys have personality. And while I imagine that, somewhere beneath their media-friendly exterior, The Vines might be real characters, you'll find no trace of it on their Capitol Records debut, Highly Evolved. I picture Craig Nicholls and Ryan Griffiths in some lavish London hotel suite at this very moment trying to figure out some way to glue the TV to the ceiling. (Not so easy, is it, champs?) Then Patrick Matthews walks out of the shower demanding, "Ayy, whicha you blokes whacked off in the shampoo?" Hilarity ensues! It's like The Monkees if they wanted to be, say, Silverchair instead of the Beatles.
Yet no life signs penetrate the crystal clarity of this album. I'd even go so far as to say that Highly Evolved may actually be the least fun record of the year, with its grungy vocals and hamfisted guitarwork-- not to mention the vintage Brit-pop and soaring harmonies they've tossed in for broad-range accessibility. It's not even a problem that they tattoo their influences on their foreheads and add nothing to what they steal from The Verve (on the slow songs), Nirvana (if Nirvana were a pop act), and the rest of commercial radio's last twenty years. But did they have to make it so dull? I mean, I understand that it's already a hit, and if anyone gets laid this summer because of this album, that trumps whatever I can say about it. But Highly Evolved has 'dad rock' written all over it. It reeks of product, right down to the special $6 purchase price most stores are pushing: "Why not check out the Vines?"
Of course, the production, courtesy of Rob Schnapf, is impeccable. But then, in typical Schnapf form, it's too impeccable. He's lent his Mr. Clean polish job to luminaries like Beck, as well as many bands who didn't need it-- Guided by Voices, for one example, Elliott Smith for another-- and while Highly Evolved is lush, having been recorded in L.A. over two months with Schnapf's mood-setting collection of vintage instruments, it also sounds plastic; he doesn't let the band make a single mistake anywhere on the album.
Schnapf's production is somewhat augmented by Craig Nicholls, singer, guitarist and lead songwriter, whose mushmouthed vocals at least stray from sterility. Problem is, his unintelligible croon doesn't really work with the more sentimental tracks (which account for at least half the songs here), and even when the music ascends to garage-style rock, his only communicable emotion is the time-honored bratty sneer. Still, Nicholls is a natural talent as a writer. He already knows from killer hooks-- "Highly Evolved" and "Outtathaway!" are fine grunge, switching from bare strumming to throbbing, jagged, yet infectious guitar lines. "Get Free" kicks off with a riff like revving up a lawnmower, and the chorus shows off the band's perfectly pitch-corrected vocal harmonies-- even if the extra-catchy bridge sounds tacked on to make it a bigger hit. And the mini-epic "1969," though sprawling and indulgent, is genuinely refreshing after squeaky-clean hard rock like "In the Jungle" and the obnoxiously beach-ready "Sunshinin'": its tortured mess of an outro drags on long enough that, for once, the two guitarists actually find room to breathe.
Highly Evolved also slows down for some endearing pop, like the peppy, syncopated "Factory." Mellow love song "Mary Jane" shows Nicholls' most sincere and affecting vocals, and "Autumn Shade," colored with acoustic guitar and piano, echoes the melody and eerie harmonies of the Beatles' "Because." But then he gets all serious on us with the yearning harmonies of "Country Yard" and the over-earnest "Homesick." They haven't even been on the road six months and they've already found time to miss Australia?
The Vines get credit for ambition, but Highly Evolved covers so much ground that none of it seems convincing: there's just no emotional depth here. Nicholls is not yet a great singer, and his feelings outpace his ability to express them. But moreover, the Vines are adept enough at rock pastiche that they miss why the Beatles took a decade to get to Let It Be. With Schnapf's help, they've crammed an entire career into one album: from song to song we skip from hard-rock teen raunch, to the popcraft of a well-behaved studio band, to the old-soul, "wish I were home again" pathos of mature, balding rockers. And it all has to come through a sneer.
