These not-so-stimulating current releases are available at fine CD stores

near campus, the perfect music to complain about on a Monday. In the words

of the philosopher Butt-head, “What the hell is this crap?”

April’s Motel Room, Black 14.

When a band starts their CD with a song called “God,” red lights

should start going off. When the third track is called “Get Down Jerry,”

and features such lines as “I’m hangin’ with Jerry out in the desert/And

we’re groovin’ on his trip,” it’s time to reach for a shotgun.

If there is anything remarkable about “AMR,” as they hope to be referred to

by the affectionate masses, it is the pride they take in mediocrity. Their

press release brags that they don’t consider themselves part of any “trendy

alternative rock movement.” Truthfully, the music is too bland to have

anything descriptive said about it. When they boast of “meandering yet

catchy melodies,” you can be assured this really means, “We have no clear

idea of style.”

AMR suffers from a total lack of self-awareness, an all-too-common syndrome

among rock bands. They make a big deal of their eclecticism, another

warning signal. “A lot of bands, you know what their next album’s gonna

(sic) sound like,” says singer-guitarist Tom Kelly. “I have no idea what

our next song is gonna sound like.”

He obviously has never listened to his own album.

Pulp, His ‘n’ Hers.

British people make boring music in vastly different ways from their Yankee

counterparts. For every group of taste and quality, say Spacemen 3 and

Stereolab, their is another band of long-lasting plainness. Even Morrisey,

in his dreadful, bad attitude glory, keeps a high level of character in his

music.

Pulp, last of the unknown Brit-pop crooners, has all the character of a

sit-com-cliche joke band. The press seems to like to compare them to the

London Suede, who are at least sexy.

Tragically, the lyrics written by band leader Jarvis Cocker are very

intriguing. “Joyriders” takes the point of view of weekend vandals,

wrecking the town. The song parodies the type with lyrics like “We don’t

look for trouble but if it comes we don’t run./ Looking out for trouble is

what we call fun.”

One song that almost rises from the flatline is “Someone Like the Moon.”

There is pop poetry in lines like “She likes to watch the moon as it

travels through the sky/ ‘Cos she’s heard that it’s romantic, though she

really can’t see why.”

Keyboardist Candida Doyle has a long and intriguing list of instruments

attributed to her, but they rarely seem to turn up in the mix. Perhaps a

better producer and backing musicians would enliven this recording. As it

is, the album never reaches the potential of the instrumentation.