Craig's Brother

Item: Lost At Sea
Author: Jason Dodd

Lost At Sea

(2001)

Reviewed by Jason Dodd

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Label Tooth & Nail RecordsHM Magazine #88March/April 2001

pop punk power pop punk skate punk

The short of it: This is a very strong pop-rock album with well-written and executed (most of the time) smart pop-rock songs.

The drawn out, admittedly projected long of it: The thinking man's SoCal rock-roll band have finally followed up their '98 debut Homecoming. And it would seem that Ted Bond has been doing some more thinking between records -- sure, about life, faith, relationships, human condition, and all that deep stuff Ted Bond is prone to think about and exposit for us -- but also about song writing, about arrangement, about production, about hitting a high note somewhere within a bridge, about finishing a song like it began or like it wants to end, about going somewhere -- where? -- anywhere, who cares, just as long as you promise to bring me back a little more conflicted than when I left, Ted darling. He also thought about using a voice transmogrifying modulator thing to make himself sound like Kid Rock in that "Only God Knows [why they play this garbage on the radio]" song. Apparently he didn't think long enough about it, because he went ahead with it. Good thing Ted doesn't have to use it throughout an entire song to sound like he can hold a note, though, huh Kid? And Ted doesn't -- only uses it here and there in a couple songs. Good restraint, Ted (not enough, obviously, but admirable in context). He also thought about starting the album with that worn out urban LA kitsch: a sample of a helicopter flying over head -- and once again failed to think twice (however, if it was a shout out to Black Francis I'm with you, man, but if it wasn't -- geez, how many times are we gonna rewrite the same sitcom, for crying out loud?).

But the thing is that Lost at Sea, which is the name of Craig's Brother's new disc by the way, only trips for trying, you know. Unless you're like the Beatles or something (and even that's debatable of course), you're gonna drop the ball here and there (let some cheese slip into the mix) when working with so much ambitious material.

But let there be no mistake. This album is brimming with all-out good songs. Take "Glory" for instance. Once the helicopter thing is done making you cringe, and the standard SoCal punk-beat intro dissipates a bit, and if you ignore the voice transmogrifying modulator thing in the chorus . . . ok, hold on, it's three minutes in, but wait it out . . . this marching beat kicks in with a surreal femme choir singing, and the marching beat is steadily quickening, and then Ted comes in behind the femmes, and the drummer breaks loose, and it's -- climax madness. They took their sweet time getting there, sure, but oh how it feels when we're there.

The story of the disc from here reads like a good novel, by someone who doesn't write for Random House, with example after example of what can be done with an accessible rock song without adding to and perpetuating the collective malaise.

CB give out the hooks, but don't rest on them -- they progress, move on from part to part, scene to scene -- and then come back around to polish the chrome. Understand, though, there are not TOO MANY hooks in each song, like a random syrupy disaster of trying to out-sweet itself (think making 'Graveyards' at a buffet soda machine) insipidly competing with each other and muddying the water. Rather, each song has its singular and constant foundation. The hook is laid, the beams are propped, and progression goes from there, still standing there, still in the house, just not content to sit around and rely on tube tops, coordinated patches, and running through town naked.

And within that context of strong song, Ted makes you want to hear him. He makes you want to believe him and care about him and get the point underneath the obvious. I mean, if I write out the lyrics in "Lullaby" and "Masonic" -- "If life's not worth the effort / at least it keeps my interest" and "Don't the good guys win?" -- they don't read like much, but you should hear them in their proper place in their respective songs. In other words, it's not always WHAT Ted sings (although he does sing a lot of things that can stand on their own quite well). It's often HOW and WHEN he says it that makes it mean something. That bored whimsy, that newfound optimism still mixed with disgust, that patient but zealous desire to help you understand, that obvious battle with apathy and caring too much, that cry for help which you cannot give -- your limitations he knows full well, but who says he is asking YOU for anything? Who says HE even knows what he's asking for? I don't know what he's asking for. That's one definite in the swimming mind-mess of this record.

But epidermal mind-mess or not, Ted communicates some things very clearly in the forty minutes he is given: Comfort is not wisdom, 'clarity' is not understanding, knowledge can just be data, you don't care enough about stuff you should care about, you care too much about stuff that doesn't matter, and pain happens. Oh vanity of vanities, you little vixen, all is vanity.