Published on Jul 15, 1999
I’m a music enthusiast, so that means I’m willing to give
various genres and styles I’m either not used to or not a fan of a
try. Through this process, I’ve discovered a love of some forms of
world music – forms that, in all honesty, I never would have tried
to listen to if it weren’t for this job.
But one form of music I’ve never been able to develop a taste
for is the ambient kind of alternative music that groups like
Cocteau Twins made a career out of writing and performing. I go
into those discs with an open mind, but within a matter of minutes,
I’m ready to make a run for the door. I’m sorry, but I have yet to
hear a group that performs this particular genre that I like.
The independent band Pox, unfortunately, falls into this
category. Their self-released CD
Fin was a disc that, quite frankly, I couldn’t stand.
Halfway through the disc, I was almost in tears, knowing that I
still had another 22 minutes of musical nonsense to plow
through.
This seven-piece group often focuses on music that doesn’t
necessarily have to resolve; often, it sounded like the guitars,
bass and drums were each playing different songs at the same time.
Doug Ackman’s vocals (along with Thymme Jones and Danika Prochaska)
often sounded muffled, and needed to be brought out more in the
mix. As weak as the vocals were, however, I have to wonder if
re-mixing would have helped at all.
And if you’re looking for deep political messages in songs like
“Still Sorry About China,” forget it. Frankly, on songs like this,
I couldn’t decipher a damned word. (By sending an e-mail address to
the band, you can get the lyrics sent to you… but I have enough
issues with this disc anyway.)
Tracks like “Thoughts Into Insects,” “A Sea Of Upturned Faces”
and “Yen Pox” all make a strong argument against Pox; unless you’re
a fan of this type of experimental, rules-out-the-window music, the
only thing this disc is going to inspire in the listener is
nausea.
What saves
Fin from being completely worthless are two tracks,
“Depo-Provera” and “Daktari Stool,” which have at least some
semblance of musical craft in them to make them listenable. I can’t
say that I’d like to make these two songs a regular part of my
musical diet, but they were the lone bright lights in a muddied
picture.
Fin reminds me of abstract art; only the people who dress
weird and talk in non sequiturs will get any of the meaning behind
this disc. For the rest of us, it’s best to leave this
headache-in-a-jewel-case alone.