Your Band Blows

Words: Scott Harrell


There’s a line in the song “Showdown” from the Black Eyed Peas’ new album The E.N.D. that goes, “Go ahead and hate us/it only makes us greater.” It’s an apt statement; after all, the worse this tired cartoon about four talentless refugees from an alternate universe where everyone’s a character from PG-rated Japanimation gets, the more popular it becomes. But the Peas’ desire to be the focus of our aggression doesn’t come from bravado. It comes from desperation - the Peas know that it takes energy and effort to feel so strongly about something, and they know that at the end of the day, they’re too superficial to be worthy of such emotional investment.

The only correct way to feel about the Black Eyed Peas, if anything, is just a bit sad.

When Metallica sold out in blatant fashion during the first half of the ‘90s, it signaled the last time such crass commercialization would ever be outrageous. By the time the Black Eyed Peas swapped their credibility as a socially conscious underground hip-hop outfit for Kids Incorporated alumnus Fergie, hook-thieving productions that would make Diddy himself think twice and an open-door policy regarding any product looking for a blandly bouncy commercial soundtrack a decade later, the most that could be conjured was a knowing sigh. It was just a sign of the times, nothing more. The pop-urban industry needed an act to cater towards those Disney-fied teens too old for boy bands but too young for a coked-up club-bathroom three-way, and will.i.am - who should’ve called himself i.will.b, because he’ll be whatever the hell you want him to if the check clears - and his cohorts were more than happy to, ahem, bridge the gap.

Sad, really.

Since then, they’ve cranked out vapid hit after vapid hit, all big, familiar beats and ridiculous visuals and repetitive lyrical refrains that contain all the subtlety, heart and originality of a first-grade reading lesson. In fact, the Peas’ entire aesthetic of bright, fast-moving objects, assaultive simple grooves and redundant, barely literate wordplay is purposely, forcefully reminiscent of an engaging but pointless children’s show - or of some well-known psychological-warfare scenarios. It’s as if they all know that there’s nothing behind the shiny, undulating curtain, so they do it faster and louder and dumber, hoping that if just half a million more 17-year-olds are brainwashed into buying the single, it’ll all mean something, somehow.

Wow. Pretty sad, huh?

The group’s members have all claimed that The E.N.D.’s title is short for The Energy Never Dies, and not any proclamation that it’s, you know, the end. But hopefully it will mean the end of the Peas’ pop-cultural dominance, because the frantic scrambling to define what’s next in mainstream urban music on display throughout the album is truly pathetic.

If first single “Boom Boom Pow” and a majority of the CD are to be believed, Fergie and company have found the future in the past; specifically, the worst, most insubstantial dance-floor filler that European discos and American gay clubs were pumping decades ago, because there wasn’t a whole weekend’s worth of good dance music to be found. But worse, the album also showcases the Peas’ forays into nominal indie-rock (the Target-whoring “I Gotta Feeling”), acoustic guitar-isms (“Now Generation”), and powerless dub (“Electric City”). All are inconsequential experiments in styles often lauded for their personal or political substance, and all immediately devolve into the kind of mugging and monosyllabic sloganeering for which the Peas are known. If anything, The E.N.D.’s vibe and lyrics present an even broader pointlessness than before, focusing on the kind of forget-your-troubles-come-spend-your-paycheck-at-the-club-and-let’s-party themes that young Americans just entering a decimated economy really don’t need to hear right now, thanks. They’re not advocating the coked-up club-bathroom three-way yet, but they’re certainly implying that listeners are as entitled to their pretentious nightlife and “where’s the party at, yo” Twittering and ignorance as any celebutard.

And if that’s not the saddest thing ever, I don’t know what is.

Oh, wait, yes I do. It’s that whole thing about Fergie maybe peeing herself onstage. That shit’s like Ozzy, and seriously, what’s sadder than New Millennium Ozzy?

Nothing.

Not. A. Damn. Thing.