This is one lullaby that will put you to sleep - forever

Cookie-cutter rock CD will have your ears bleeding in no time

By Ryan Smith

At the risk of spoiling the surprise for those listeners running to the nearest record store to pick up the debut album “…And Don’t Forget to Breathe” by A Static Lullaby, heed the warning of the album’s title and don’t hold your breath. The only thing fresh about this new release is the smell of the paper album jacket.

Yet, looking at the evolutionary timeline of rock & roll music during the last half of the decade, one cannot solely blame A Static Lullaby for producing a collection of songs that blatantly conform to the industry standard.

What’s most depressing about “…And Don’t Forget to Breathe,” as well as the industry as a whole, is that it seems to be unmotivated to create music that will set it apart from what everyone else is doing. It’s sad to think that musicians care more about pedaling a particular image than they do about being held accountable for the quality of their music.

It appears that pandering to a generation crippled by ADD is more convenient than honest work. A Faustian deal with the devil seems to be in the making and A Static Lullaby has signed the dotted line with their blood.

The terms of agreement are simple: Play what we want to hear and we’ll keep your band from having to visit the unemployment line every month.

For the true rock aficionado though, 10 minutes of A Static Lullaby will leave you comatose for the next 30 minutes. The musical compositions are so painstakingly typical from one song to the next that you find yourself checking the CD player to make sure you’re not still on the same track.

For four years, assembly-line rock & roll has been coasting on autopilot along the airwaves of radio. Falling inline with the countless other bands that have come and gone with the abruptness and finality of a SIDS epidemic, A Static Lullaby has surely been given its prognosis and their future is bleak.

In fact, it may be dangerous to a listener’s well-being to hear this album at all. A combination of erratic, staccato guitar playing, classic punk rock drumbeats and cheap, cosmetic, phlegm-gurgling screaming is enough to make even the most strong-willed listeners feel like they’re having an epileptic seizure during a fireworks show on the Fourth of July.

And if I may make one more observation as a matter of irony, I don’t think suggesting suicide in the content of song two, “Love To Hate, Hate To Me,” to be good policy when listeners might already be feeling the desire to be six feet under as a way to escape the dregs of this pop-rock menace.

So my recommendation is this: wait for an independent label to release a compilation CD showcasing all of these mediocre bands on an exclusive made for television offer entitled “NOW! That’s What I Call Trendy 35” so that rock ‘n’ roll can bury its dead and move on.