Bobby Conn needs new friends. Sure, they're a talented bunch (John McEntire, for example), but friends are supposed to look out for your best interests; hence the common wisdom of "friends don't let friends (drive drunk/vote Republican/go to Michigan State)." Bobby Conn's friends apparently never got the message. They would probably never keep him from driving drunk, voting Republican or attending Michigan State.
I say this because no one stopped Bobby. At any point, one of them could have said, "Bobby, this The Golden Age thing. Man, I just think it's a bad idea. Are you sure you want to do this?" But none did. They should all be ashamed, like you'd expect the friends who let friends drive Chevy trucks to be ashamed.
I can imagine the scene, somewhere in Chicago; Bobby spends eight minutes jamming on the Virginia Slims motto, "You've come a long way, baby." Drummer Colby Stark hears it all. He knows the right thing to do. But Colby is afraid of Bobby, maybe because Bobby is more popular than him, or has a hot temper when he's making shitty music. So Colby relents, and appeases his self-absorbed collaborator:
The first time I heard that track I actually flicked-off my CD player. I send that middle-finger directly to you, Colby Stark. You should have known better. Wake up and start taking care of your friends.
And whoever pianist Nick Sula is, he heard the following line, from the "tongue-in-cheek" (read: disgusting) folk ballad "Whore," and kept his mouth shut: "I'll be working on your street/ Missing half my teeth/ Give another gummy blowjob/ Get myself something good to eat." You had your chance, Nick, and you failed. Now go to confession.
The reasons for never buying this album extend far beyond the irritating lyrics. Bobby Conn's vocal theatrics will make you ill. They reminded me of Meat Loaf crossbred with Rob Halford. His falsetto is one of the worst I've ever heard. Furthermore, it seems that Bobby Conn also lacks songwriting ability. Songs meander with forgettable melodies and all kinds of twists and turns that bear no relationship to one another, other than that they're all copped from 70s glam rock, prog rock and funk. On the P-Funk-cum-Robbie Williams tune "No Revolution," for example, Bobby breathes some Bootsy Collins into a chunky left-hand bassline. It sounds alright for a minute, until the trite, happy-time chorus takes over, declaring that, "There will be no revolution here," which, coincidentally, was exactly what I was thinking for the larger part of The Golden Age.
None of this even touches on the demeanor of the album's purveyor. Bobby Conn's errors might be forgivable if they were innocent and humble. But they're clearly not-- I've read a few interviews with the guy, and suffice it to say, Bobby Conn is fond of Bobby Conn. It's almost as if thinks he's playing a trick on rock and roll, offering some kind of witty, sarcastic commentary on the genre. Or maybe he's being serious. Who knows? Furthermore, who cares? Whatever Bobby Conn was aiming for with The Golden Age came out amateurish and obnoxious. With that, we can add one more proverb to the list: friends don't let friends listen to Bobby Conn.
