• Dropkick Murphys, Signed and Sealed in Blood (Born & Bred) – The unavoidable deterrent about these ever-fiery Celtic rockers from Boston is their interchangeability. If you’ve heard at least two more albums since creative breakthrough Blackout a decade ago, then you’ve pretty much heard ’em all, including 2011’s attempt at a concept album, Going Out in Style, which was at least as solid as Flogging Molly’s narratives yet can be matched by one great song here – say “Rose Tattoo,” a more naked cry of undying loyalty than you’ll find from these carousing anthem-makers.
What sets this one apart is its concision without compromise. They’ve wisely ditched any pretense toward heightened significance, re-stoking their bro-hymn flames instead, while producing the thoughtfulness and variety that keeps peeking out the older they get. Punk energy abounds even in the softer waltzing moments (including a yuletide keeper, “The Season’s Upon Us”) yet they come across just as believably when they detour toward classic country (“Jimmy Collins’ Wake”), fuzzed-up Social Distortion chant-rock (“Don’t Tear Us Apart”) or a hint of glammy ’70s boogie (“Out of Our Heads”). They take further baby steps forward and wind up winning: same spirit, no sapping of strength, yet increasing willingness to put down the beer and bagpipes and do something different. Grade: B+
• Girls: Volume 1 (Fueled by Ramen) – Lena Dunham’s compulsively watchable adults-0nly glimpse at train-wreck twentysomethings caught in one awkward position after another gratefully gets the train-wreck soundtrack it deserves. It’s a given that the more you know the show, the more the collection works as a memory keeper, yet all of it is agreeably hip regardless. When you let the deluxe edition wash by for the length of two episodes, a happy-edgy flow carries you along so smoothly even the no-names almost rise to the level of gems you should already have (Robyn’s glorious lead-off kiss-off, a ray of partly-cloudy sunshine from Belle and Sebastian strong enough to leave a light burn).
The standouts you don’t have are unusually plentiful: a sweet reconstruction of the Stones’ “Fool to Cry” from Tegan and Sara, sharp slices of fun. and Grouplove similar to what made them popular yet satisfying anyway. Nice entrée into the burgeoning songbooks of Fleet Foxes and Harper Simon it might be, but most of what’s exceptional here can be had elsewhere, the must-haves don’t outnumber the merely interesting introductions, and though I welcome even a fleeting sexy grime from Santigold, after I’d blasted the playlist twice I couldn’t recall a lick of it. And still I’d buy the whole thing just to have Michael Penn’s closer. Grade: B
• Hollywood Undead, Notes from the Underground (A&M/Octone) – Could my eye-rolling have started involuntarily because I’m just not in the mood for lines like “let’s kill everyone” right now, even if it as a character piece? Maybe. But I never thought to blame Marilyn Manson (a genuine artist at least veering toward originality) for Columbine, and I didn’t lose interest in him because of it. Likewise, no parent (nor NRA spokesperson) who accidentally hears the curiously anemic violence that litters the latest batch from this mostly masked troupe should overreact and lump it onto the heap of cultural scapegoats for school shootings.
Why sensible consumers of this stuff should heave it into the fire is its blatant thievery. The anger is flabby Eminem, the fright is as slick and unconvincing as Manson now, and their overall sound felt old back when the Bloodhound Gang were parodying it in Y2K. Everything they do is still done better by everyone they crib from, be it Korn or 311. Also, I already have enough Linkin Park records. Grade: C-
• Black Veil Brides, Wretched and Divine: The Story of the Wild Ones (Universal Republic) – Their boiled-over conceptualism is a metal tradition I respect, but I doubt these three-albums-in upstarts aim for it as intentionally as their intermittent doomsday narrations suggest. Their Hanoi-Rocks-goes-goth twist on sinister prog-metal is welcome in a scene too often packed with meatheads and phony fear-mongers, and their fretwork and arranging is extra tasty in the epic stretches. But I’d prefer their soupy all-is-lost saga as an instrumental. They have the same problem that artier and far hairier Coheed & Cambria suffer: the throwback thrills of the music, no matter how immediate and crushing they occasionally get, aren’t substantive enough to merit hours of pouring over cartoon neurosis about God and man. Grade: C+
Album reviews: Dropkick Murphys, ‘Girls’ comp is a post from: Soundcheck