ell of course this record was going to suck. I mean, it’s Nada Surf! You know, the band with the song, and no one had heard from them since? Yeah, they’ve got a new record. There was even a piece in the New York Times a few weeks ago about how they have to struggle to retain their audience, ever since they’ve been relegated to Euro-only radio, and their manager told them that they were one-hit wonders, and that a different album this year with the same name has sold five million records or something like that. Psh. It means nothing.


This record is Weezer-lite, emo-lite, corporate radio, MOR rock junk. Sorry. There’s nothing here that hasn’t already been done several times over, and more than likely, better (Semisonic and Marcy Playground come to mind). "I’m sorry / I’ve got nowhere to go!" Matthew Caws croons over the half-ambient over-emoting (complete with acoustic guitar slide sounds), half bass-drum rave-up of "Fruit Fly." I applaud the guy for taking the song in a new, Cheap Trick-ish direction halfway through, but by then, the horrible lyrics are still fresh. "Left some food wrapped up in a plastic bag / on the kitchen table, waiting out / sat down to eat / next to the bag." I dunno. Someone tell me that isn’t awkward sounding and, if that’s the point, then tell me why I should care.


But I suppose that wouldn’t be so bad if this was all in some sort of emo context, or at least some sonic invention to go over it. That’s not what Nada Surf is about—this is pleasant enough, it’s got a nice jangle to it, and sometimes, there’s even an organ. This reminds me of the music I listened to in the fifth grade, complete with three-part harmonies and "I’m so confused, girl!" lyrics ("Blizzard Of ‘77"). It’s so inoffensive, though, one gets the impression the band tries to fill out the rest of the record by trying to prove themselves. Creating an entire song about listening to Blonde On Blonde ("Blonde on Blonde"), singing an entire song in French ("Là Pour Ca," yeah, really), and closing with an almost-acoustic indie-pop number about wallowing in your sadness ("Paper Boats") don’t help much, though.


That’s not to say this entire record is horrible. There are some nice moments. Caws is able to craft a hospitable pop melody in his sleep, it seems, and when the downbeat pretense is dropped, the Surf can actually rock out. The single "The Way You Wear Your Head" is a power-pop masterpiece of sorts; a consistent one-one-two drum thwack and exuberant guitar/keyboard spike sail under an affected vocal by Caws, but the chorus spirals around a falsetto to create a melodic drone not heard since, well, Weezer. Naturally, when the "emotional" guitar solo appears, the song returns to the very mind-state that brings this record down (the very next track even features the lyric "I wanna know what it’s like / on the inside of love").


When Nada Surf manages to attain a combination of major-key jangle against a melancholic chorus, though, the pure subtle juxtaposition sounds just right; "No Quick Fix" features their tried-and-true formula of steady drum attacks and falsetto harmonies, but the plain lyrics don’t draw attention to themselves, and simply sound like more texture to the song. Hell, there’s even "Hi Speed Soul," which opens with heavy metal guitar and claps, only to switch gears to a New Order tribute—reverbed guitars skip back and forth, and waves of synths appear out of nowhere. It’s actually genuinely surprising—something most of this record truly isn’t.