In the grand scheme of things, Victory Records are up there with Tooth and Nail in the ‘Lets sign every band we kind of like and hope they knock out a decent record’ stakes. While they may have hit the jackpot with the likes of Taking Back Sunday and the Reunion Show, when it comes to the arse end of the scale, things really do get tragic.
Snowdogs, despite having one of the worst names for a band I’ve had the misfortune to come across in a long time, play a bizarre hybrid of friendly radio rock, mid 90’s power pop and Autopilot Off style pop punk. In the right hands, this kind of thing can be endearing and enjoyable, packed full of sing a long lyrics and head-bobbing guitar riffs. In the wrong hands, you are left with ‘Deep Cuts, Fast Remedies’.
After reading some truly dire reviews of this album, I was expecting the worst when I forst hit the play button, but opener ‘Average Kid’ wasn’t the tripe I was expecting. Granted, the lyrics are poor at best and the melody third hand, but it left me intrigued as to how the rest of the record would pan out, at least. Similarly, ‘Drive’ merely harked back to the likes of 3 Colours Red, albeit drastically watered down. So what exactly could go wrong over the course of the next 10 songs?
The answer is everything. The biggest compliment I could pay to this band is that they know how to rip off a catchy melody, but that’s as much as I can say. ‘Freedom For Everyone’ is just horrible. The musical equivalent of a zombiefied corpse slowly and painfully dragging itself across the ground, ready to gnaw on your ankles, it even has a group of children doing the back up vocals on the chorus. It really is enough to make you vomit.
‘Million Pieces’ employs some painful semi-rapping on the verse and a brutally predictable pounding chorus before the Paul Simon song ‘Boy In the Bubble’ is ritually slaughtered for sport and profit. If you can’t even play other people’s songs competently then you know that you’re wasting your time.
By this point, you’d be shocked if I told you that it gets even worse, but dear god, it does. Schlock country sing a longs that wouldn’t be out of place on a Dixie Chicks record? See ‘End Of the World’. Do you want sickeningly bad mid-paced ska that may or may not have been used to advertise cooking oil in a wacky advertisement? Then ‘Hour Of Sunshine‘ is for you.
Oh, you know what, I can’t even be bothered to carry on with this review. Next to some of the demo’s from so called amateur bands I have here to review, this record pales in comparison. Take my advice; steer clear of this horrible band. Actually, don’t, go into your favourite record shop and see if they have a copy. Ask the guy at the counter to put it on the listening post or whatever and have a listen to a few of the tracks and then be prepared to either laugh uncontrollably or start projectile vomiting left, right and centre.
If this band ever release another record again, I will personally castrate every one of them and make them eat their own testicles raw while being serenaded by Celine Dion and being forced to watch endless reruns of ‘Last Of the Summer Wine’ with Janet Street Porter for company. Alternatively, I might record myself playing nursery rhymes on a nose flute and send it to Victory Records. Maybe they will let me have a recording contract.
Oh, and the one star is partly for the comedy aspect of the songs, the fact that ‘Drive’ occasionally reminds me of the demented bastard offspring of 3 Colours Red and that this record means that Mest can actually claim themselves to be a more enjoyable listen than this group of imbeciles.
Ross