I like to think I have a good sense of humor, but this joke just isn’t funny enough to justify this, ahem, mess. If your frontman (Gabe Saporta) cops to the fact that his band is having a laugh, you’d better make it work. From Spinal Tap to Tenacious D to Flight of the Conchords, plenty of comedic music acts have gained a lot of mileage out of being both silly and musically proficient. But Cobra Starship apparently thinks that they can have it both ways like the rest, yet miss the point on either side. The previous acts were funny and they wrote good songs to hang the gags from like a clothesline. But this joke is delivered too straight to be anything but a lousy attempt at imitation-as-satire, yet the compositions and hooks are so blatantly screeching. over-the-top and intentionally stupid that they make the effort to unravel any dry wit (if there is any) too painful to endure. On the surface, this is guilty of every shiny dance rock crime there is. Underneath…well, my masochistic tendencies aren’t developed enough to make the effort. Even if you somehow think its goofiness pays off, it’s still indefensible. The phrase “guilty pleasure” was made for records like these.
Tragically, I cannot understand how anyone could derive pleasure from this, guilty or not. It’s not enough to be fluff; it has to shove its “fluffiness” in your face (and cotton candy is never as tasty after it gets smushed). They can’t coast on candy charm when it’s “funnier” to be obnoxious about it. One gloriously awful usage of cheerleader chant breakdowns won’t do when they can do it a half dozen times. They can’t just trash superficial dance punk—they’ve got to drag synthpop, R&B, hip hop and emo through the mud, in ways that make you wish you were listening to the worst breed of the straight-faced “real deal” instead.
At least they don’t draw the suckers in with some offbeat charisma before unleashing the horror. The leadoff track is “Nice Guys Finish Last,” one of the most evil slices of pop trash to be unleashed on my ears in some time (and I heard the recent School Boy Humor album). It’s like the Ark of the Covenant versus the Nazis, only you gotta shut your ears, too, to survive it. By the time that the bland female backups add, “Bad boys, bad boys, all we want is bad boys!” to the chorus, your head is swimming in a dark place. The bridge where Saporta asks the single ladies (“yeah!”) for their help (“tell us what you want us to do now!”), you’re in the fetal position, crying. They follow that up with a song called “Pete Wentz Is the Only Reason We’re Famous.” Check, please.
Saporta singing about how he’s “not street” but has a crew on that “Wentz” cut isn’t a lyrical nadir, but rather the norm. On “Good Girls Gone Bad” (inexplicably climbing the charts fast), he flatly seduces, “I know your type/Yeah, daddy’s little girl/Just take a bite/Let me shake up your world/’Cause just one night couldn’t be so wrong/I’m gonna make you lose control.” Apparently, he took the advice from “Nice Guys” and became a smirking jerk; he didn’t take common advice because this song features one of those cheerleader-esque singalongs that’ll make you cringe. And instead of recruiting an actual singer to join him on this duet-from-hell, they bring in an actress named Leighton Meester. I don’t know who that is, but based on what I just heard, I’m in no hurry to peruse her career resume on imdb.com anytime soon.
Lest you think that the entire album is stuffed with vapid bubblegum-on-steroids junk, give a listen to “Fold Your Hands Child” (or better, don’t). Suddenly, the bad idea hawker veneer wears out enough for Saporta to deliver a (gasp) inspirational message. Something about following your dreams, as unsubtle as you’d expect from this out of control outfit. Any misappropriated goodwill that might have afforded them disappears by the arrival of “Living in the Sky with Diamonds,” which has his vapid heroine not wanting to grow up at all. Still, the worst idea on this track is the name—the one about Wentz was a less offensive reference. There is no nod to The State on “Wet Hot American Summer” (thank God…), instead just settling into an unredeemable summer “cruisin’ song”: “'Cause summer's in the air now/I gotta get my game down tight/It's all right/Yo, go and get the word out/We're gonna rock this party tonight.” Remind me to never accept an invitation to a party thrown by Gabe Saporta.
Hot Mess wears me out emotionally. I was so numb by the final song that I wasn’t even outraged when B.O.B. shows up to drop a rap verse on “The World Will Never Do.” I wasn’t amused, but it flitted by with a shrug and a somber headshake. On that song, you can grimace through the line, “I know it sounds cliché, but you know it’s true—girl, there’s no me without you.” Proof, again, that Saporta realizes that this stuff comes across as pitiful. And yet he’s selling you thirty-eight mindless minutes of it. So it’s not that he doesn’t have talent (though that’s questionable) or that he doesn’t have a clue; he’s simply cruel. By listening to it, I’ve become a victim of this vindictive hoax; please, don’t be the next. Treat this Starship as you would the Jefferson variety and just stay away.
"Hot Mess" is on sale August 11, 2009 from Fueled by Ramen.
