Wasted on the Dream was supposed to be JEFF the Brotherhood's second album on Warner Bros., but about a month ago, the Nashville duo announced they were "SO FUCKING PLEASED" that they had been dropped. Now the title reads as accidentally prophetic: This is likely to be the only album ever to feature members of Jethro Tull and Best Coast and a guy who worked with Poco, and you have to wonder what Warner Bros. were hoping for by allowing a band like JEFF the Brotherhood to conduct their own fantasy draft. But at least their short stint in the big leagues allowed the group a shot to make good on the upward trajectory promised by 2011's We Are the Champions. Instead, Wasted on the Dream just skulks back to a keg that was kicked far too long ago.
No one should have to apologize for party rockin’, of course. But when your basic M.O. is "we’ve got mustaches and a sixer," there’s only three ways your eighth (!) album can go. You grow increasingly debauched until your body gives out or the authorities come calling. You discover the Replacements and start writing wistful, ruminative songs with acoustic guitars. Or you take a third path, cut by recent Hold Steady and Free Energy releases and followed by JEFF the Brotherhood here: scale back in the name of "good, clean fun." It’s an overreaction to any encroachment of "I’m too old for this shit," countering age with enthusiasm in the hopes of perking the ears of listeners who might still get titillated at the mention of beer and weed in a radio rock song. At best, Wasted on the Dream is an eager, "responsible" parent letting the high school kids get drunk at their house because they gotta do it somewhere. At worst, they sorta sound like narcs.
Sample lyrics: "The world has turned into a great big ball of shit." "Marijuana makes me wanna take off all my clothes." There’s one song where Jake Orrall is too drunk to karaoke and many others that refer to "the dream" as some kind of vague vision quest guided by an unnamed hallucinogen. Quoting the lyrics at length disarms deeper criticism once you realize what you’re up against—it’s harmless, mostly, the sort of played-out and time-stamped easy laughs that lead one to believe the flute solo on "Black Cherry Pie" could’ve been inspired by Ron Burgundy, even if Ian Anderson actually plays the damn thing.
Wasted on the Dream argues for the viability for modern classic rock and at the very least, it wants to interact with the kids rather than resort to Kid Rock-style concern trolling about the obsolescence of the geetar. Their generous hooks and effective riffs establish the Orralls as premiere Buzz Bin archivists,"Cosmic Visions" somehow recalling both Weezer and the one time when the Smashing Pumpkins sounded like they were having fun, which is to say it’s a major bite of "Where Boys Fear to Tread". They’re an able stand-in for fellow alt-grunge torchbearer Wavves on the Bethany Cosentino feature "In My Dreams", and their stoner-rock allegiances are confined to "Melting Place", which manages to recall "Black Sabbath", "Iron Man", "Paranoid" and JEFF's single-entendre spirit guide, "Sweet Leaf", the four Black Sabbath songs known by even the most casual fans.
It's all crunchy and cloying and probably better if you're high, but that just makes Wasted on the Dream something like a store-brand version of your favorite cereal; it's close, but not there, usually a matter of texture and feel. Despite doubling their number of guitar strings from three to six and their live personnel to a quartet, Wasted on the Dream is a buzzless, antiseptic recording, with hotshot producer Joe Chiccarelli (The Strokes, Spoon, Jason Mraz, it just gets weirder) spraying Febreze all over the room. Or, there just isn't an established character selling it to you, no way to ascertain a discernible JEFF the Brotherhood-ness through it all. But maybe that's just as well for an act that always felt destined not to be America's preeminent party-rock band, but a pre-party band—surely fun, but a warmup for something bigger and more memorable.
