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 Lead singer Michael Shepard confusingly ooohs and aaahs for about a minute, then returns to
the chorus.
Lovedrug is a band of near
misses. They ascended rapidly through the independent ranks to land a deal with
Columbia on the strength of a strong fanbase and a couple of singles, never
selling as many records as expected, and not quite writing the hit people
predicted. I remember hearing them on the upswing, a friend playing “Blackout”
waiting for my reaction. The song was sly, sinister. Recognizable, yet also
unfamiliar. It was also not a hit. It is the kind of song that gets you into a
band, but would never get anything other than college radio play. The fact is, Pretend You’re Alive was not a hit and
neither is Everything Starts Where It
Ends.
Their brief foray into major
label-land has left them with an eagerness to please. At times, the band
sabotages itself by attempting to be both Muse and Snow Patrol — epic stadium
rockers and bawling balladeers. “Pushing the Shine” wails like Muse with a
garage rock background. The strongest single candidate through the three-minute
mark, it abruptly moves into its “arty phase” (read: uninspired ambience in
place of a real bridge). Lead singer Michael Shepard confusingly ooohs and aaahs for about a minute, then returns to
the chorus. “Theiving” is embarrassing to listen to, complete with lyrics like,
“would you believe me if I told you that fairy tales come true” and the
ill-conceived simile “hold you like candy on a Friday.” I don’t wish to
misspeak — Lovedrug are extremely talented musicians. They are just missing missing
that unnameable heart lying behind every great band. There should be no reason
why they are not outselling Snow Patrol and pals, yet they seem to have
wandered into a puppet show, with the Billboard charts yanking at the strings.
The second half of the album has
the band stretching out musically and conceptually. As the songs get longer and
less directed toward popular appeal, the band loosens up its chokehold.
“Doomsday and the Echo” begins to display the reasons why Lovedrug was on the
tip of every Bends-loving tongue a
few years ago. “Salt of the Earth” follows, pummeling you with its iron chain
percussion. The clinking metal creates a claustrophobic atmosphere powerful in
its suggestiveness. I could do without the minute-and-a-half guitar solo, followed
by another minute of piano noodling, but they never were shy about their prog
leanings. The title track is a seven-minute blueprint — it revisits all of the
elements elsewhere on the album, but pulls it off on the strength of the hooks.
The song contains three parts that could legitimately carry a song. They
stretch out into a “Fix You”-style climax before returning to the gorgeous
chorus to close the album.
The last four songs almost make
me want to rewrite the criticisms of the first section. The thought remains
that it is even more disappointing to know how much better they could be.
Despite that the band claims to “refuse to recognize a dichotomy between art
and mass appeal,” Everything Stars Where
It Ends often listens like a lesson on why most bands can’t have both.
Catchy, but not quite catchy enough, experimental but not in an interesting
way, the album languishes in a wasteland of almosts. C | James McAnally
RIYL: Muse, Radiohead’s The
Bends, Snow Patrol
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