Childlike, sloppy nonsense from Jonathan Richman, who seems to think that production, songwriting, and effort are all perversions of some pure human transmission. Isn't all we need just to sing The Wheels on the Bus, spiked with a little bit of what makes me, me, man?
Nah, I mean, songwriting is good. Effort is good. And a pure outpouring only works if you are inherently charming, which this band is not. It's Shaggsian (that's bad). You're left with the impression that the Modern Lovers stumbled ass backwards into their debut underground-success. They took disinterested past cool and into Wasting My Time. There's flashes of charm. And I rather like some of the non-western excursions. But they're all undercut by this sense of indulgent, glorified, half-baked fucking around that doesn't remotely justify itself 2.5/5
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment