Is it perhaps a cruel irony that a band named Failure be not known for its successes, of which there are little? Perhaps not, given the circumstances surrounding the band’s existence. Failure had certain things going for them: they had a name that was more bad than clever not unlike other alternative acts of the time (see: Tool, Hum, Mr. Bungle, Helmet), they were skilled, imaginative, they worked with Steve Albini once and were respected by the aforementioned Tool, who they played shows with. They had everything sans a major radio hit, which they seemed to be really trying for near the end.

As said before, Failure did not suck and were actually doing some things with their sound that were only hinted at in the past. Tool was their closest companion when it came to the Lollapalooza set. However, where Tool was, at least before their Isis rip-off period, angst-ridden but much more tongue-in-cheek about it than their nu-metal followers, Failure was more whimsical, pensive and lyrically vague. It’s a wonder as to why they never quite caught on.

Earlier in their brief career, which consisted of three albums, Failure was more than comfortable with their art rock persona. While their chops were by no means inaccessible, they weren’t going out of their way to simply rock. Their finest hour actually lasted 49 minutes, the amount of time it takes to listen to Magnified from start to finish. The album is disciplined and concise, but it’s also a little strange—for the mid-nineties at least. The songs are structured simply enough for any post-Nirvana depressive to sway aimlessly to, and yet the rhythms are droning with a quaking low end, the vocals are near-monotone and numb. The title song is perhaps most well known out of the ten tracks. But nothing quite captivates like “Let It Drip,” the opener which has the energy of Swervedriver but far more apathetic than burnt out. The song is repetitive but druggy, dismal and just barely over two and a half minutes.

Failure followed Magnified up with Fantastic Planet which, by the looks of the galactic (not to mention awful) artwork, would make one think that they were descending further into the artsy, experimental territory. Aside form the indulgent instrumentals; this would not be the case. Failure seemed to have been taking some notes off of the Foo Fighters. The amps blast bombastic arena riffage, the rock equivalent of the family runt cutting out the screen door in hopes that his/her cooler cousins would say hello just once. The songs sounded alright if one turned a blind eye to the drawbacks. One of the strongest tracks is “Smoking Umbrellas,” which adheres to the quiet-loud-quiet dynamic but does not carry the stench of trying too hard like their other songs (their minor hit “Stuck on You” is the most obvious culprit). Lyrical content seems to have been the only aspect of the band that did not change, which is filled with hallucinogenic imagery—drug use was proving a problem in the band’s last years.

Failure seemed poised to be fairly big at least for a time, but it seems that the listening public was not yet ready for so-called space rock—Hum being the only other major link to this tag. Former members are still active in A Perfect Circle (which covered “The Nurse Who Loved Me”), Queens of the Stone Age, and Autolux (which features main Failure songwriter Greg Edwards). The only other uttering of Failure’s influence has been seen in Cave In who have admitted to blatantly ripping them off, even in career moves apparently. The cycle continues unabated.

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