Oh, to be young and supposedly hip band, with the support of a multinational corporation to build your credibility! You must have done something right to win such an honor--and hey, guess what, it doesn't really matter that nobody's heard of you until your debut record--we're talking about hipness here, my friend. That's why it must be awfully nice to be in Stellastarr* these days. Salad days? Screw that, it's time for lobster! Just pass me the drawn butter!
I mean, these guys are doing everything so by-the-book, I feel like I'm listening to a real-life 'How to Be a Hip Band In One Album Or Less' manual. I mean, these kids are doing everything possible to be considered cool, yet neglecting one thing: being cool. You know the things I'm talking about. Big hair, hip sounding guitars that rip off and yet somehow make the Cure and Joy Division sound utterly innovative, and--OH MY GOD IS HE SINGING ABOUT COCOPUFF CEREAL? Talk about appealing to a target demographic! This album makes me want to get a time machine and go back to 1980 and cut that damn rope, kick Ian Curtis in his skinny ass and say, "DON'T DO IT! YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT KIND OF MEDIOCRE PSEUDO-CRAP YOUR DEATH WILL INFLICT UPON THE CHILDREN OF THE FUTURE!!!!"
Stellastarr* is that kind of disposable record by an utterly forgettable band you won't remember next year. Sure, it's a cool record and they're a cool band--if you're fifteen and not old enough to know better. And those damn vocals? Good lord, David Byrne should sue...for something. ANYTHING because this album brings shame and dishonor to the history of the Talking Heads, and let's not even discuss the collective dis to the respected name of Fred Schneider. In a perfect world, nobody would ever hear of Stellastarr* and they'd be forced to sell their CD on CD Baby at reduced prices, and good bands will get the deals with RCA.
Oh, wait, that's where they'll be next year.
And, thank god, we've only got six weeks until then.
P.S. COME BACK RIC OCASEK, ALL IS FORGIVEN!!!