Murder Your Darlings
There’s hardly a more unfortunate union than a melodramatic songwriter full of self-pity and a band that takes itself far too seriously. Usually, the junction results in some kind of rather ridiculous set of songs about heartache and ironic, trashy novel-worthy desolation that include lines like “watching the sands as they slip away.” In the case of Wampeters, adding a less nasal and more whiny version of Tom Petty as your vocalist is all they needed to do to complete this dreadful vision.
Murder Your Darlings , a shoo-in for the most uplifting album title of the year, is a lackluster attempt at dirty-thirties (no offense, readers) hometown rock-n-roll. It’s Matchbox 20 meets a withered and tired Bob Dylan, evoking images of crowds filled with worn-out wrinkly women on their twenty-seventh cigarette of the night, lollygaging around pool tables through the Wampeters’ gruelingly uninspiring set. Such songs like “Architect of her Misery,” which the overly re-appearing chorus simply chants the song’s ridiculously theatrical title, desperately cry for a good reason why people can’t express their sorrow in style. With Wampeters, just like their music, it’s just sad.
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