Review Summary: Tiresome, bloated and silly
For their fifth album,
The Great Misdirect, Between the Buried and Me switched to autopilot and spent a good hour drifting through their own comfort zone. Any real sense of urgency and intent had been rinsed from the band’s formula, making it seem as if the bumpy, downhill road from [i]Thly,
Empty Days & Sleepless Nights is nothing but a retread of old ground, with yet another story of people wallowing in abject misery. The band’s dogged pursuit of some overarching masterpiece draws close attention to the lyrical content, so evennging, about an obviously terrible subject. There was still hope for the Boston outfit, though. The storytelling gimmick had run out steam, but the rest of the formula still had promise. Combined with a reputation for passionate live perfo their previous few efforts, with a palpable thread of energy and purpose in almost every moment of the record. From the deep clatter of the drums to the blazing guitars, this is the sound of a band just bursting with the need to make some noise. Unfortunately, after taking firm control of their output once more, they cheerfully fly the plane into the goddamn mountain, leaving nothing but a fragmented, gleaming pile of junk. It’s far from the worst thing they have ever produced, but even further from their best.
The record is brimming with half-realised ideas that would require far more than three songs to reach their potential. Crisp, punchy riffs are shoved onto preceding sections with a workmanlike inevitability; occasional patches of noodling show up for Unfortunately, after taking firm control of their output once more, they cheerfully fly the plane into the goddamn mountain, leaving nothing but a fragmented, gleaming pile of junk. It’s far from the worst thing they have ever produced, but even further from their best.
The record is brimming with half-realised ideas that would require far more than three songs to reach their potential. Crisp, punchy riffs are shoved onto preceding sections with a workmanlike inevitability; occasional patches of noodling show up for Unfortunately, after taking firm control of their output once more, they cheerfully fly the plane into the goddamn mountain, leaving nothing but a fragmented, gleaming pile of junk. It’s far from the worst thing they have ever produced, but even further from their best.
The record is brimming with half-realised ideas that would require far more than three songs to reach their potential. Crisp, punchy riffs are shoved onto preceding sections with a workmanlike inevitability; occasional patches of noodling show up for Unfortunately, after taking firm control of their output once more, they cheerfully fly the plane into the goddamn mountain, leaving nothing but a fragmented, gleaming pile of junk. It’s far from the worst thing they have ever produced, but even further from their best.
The record is brimming with half-realised ideas that would require far more than three songs to reach their potential. Crisp, punchy riffs are shoved onto preceding sections with a workmanlike inevitability; occasional patches of noodling show up for Unfortunately, after taking firm control of their output once more, they cheerfully fly the plane into the goddamn mountain, leaving nothing but a fragmented, gleaming pile of junk. It’s far from the worst thing they have ever produced, but even further from their best.
The record is brimming with half-realised ideas that would require far more than three songs to reach their potential. Crisp, punchy riffs are shoved onto preceding sections with a workmanlike inevitability; occasional patches of noodling show up for Unfortunately, after taking firm control of their output once more, they cheerfully fly the plane into the goddamn mountain, leaving nothing but a fragmented, gleaming pile of junk. It’s far from the worst thing they have ever produced, but even further from their best.
The record is brimming with half-realised ideas that would require far more than three songs to reach their potential. Crisp, punchy riffs are shoved onto preceding sections with a workmanlike inevitability; occasional patches of noodling show up for no particular reason, like in the soft-porn interlude of ‘Lunar Wilderness’. Tommy Rogers randomly punctuates each track with his singing, but the melodies and delivery sound tired (‘Specular Reflection’) and occasionally laughable (‘Augment of Rebirth’). And while it seems pedantic to criticise any metal for the quality of its lyrics, the concept here is so deeply awful that it becomes difficult to ignore. In the depths of inebriation it might seem profound, but even L. Ron Hubbard would balk at this limp story. Combined with the glaring touches of theatricality in the music, it all starts to feel like Between the Buried and Me have become a parody of themselves. The promise of a full length conclusion feels more like a threat in this light, but the components of a great record are still there, so maybe the band can pull things together in the coming year. Sadly, for
The Parallax: Hypersleep Dialogues, it’s already too late.
On night four they come back
Awakening a new life over and over, like I’ve never been there before.
Living and breathing, but still choking.
A mirror stares back. I contort like the wheels in my head.
Still nothing ever happens. Please wake up.
