It was about time we had a falling out....

Latest Vista article about where emotional music goes to die...I was going to do something different for this and go track by track, but I don't think I have time...Sorry Lisa, but this will have to do.


Fall Out Boy’s “Infinity on High” a Flashy Flop

Get out your black hoodie, your super skinny jeans, and your black Chucks. Chicago pop-punk quartet Fall Out Boy is back with their fourth full-length album, “Infinity on High,” an album that will no doubt have high school kids moshing for joy, well those who have no real music taste that is. The album is chock full of over-produced rock songs with tacky lyrics and clumsily mixed metaphors.

After listening I had to venture back four years to remember why anyone should care about these guys. You see back in the day, I was a FOB fan, which earns me little credibility as a music critic, but I’m telling you, 2003’s “Take This To Your Grave” pre-dates and outshines most of the pop-riddled “punk” that bands have inflicted on the world. But alas, somehow Fall Out Boy lost me on their path to platinum.

The album opens with homage to the “diehard” fans who have been there since the beginning, ironic because most of those fans are long gone. Oh, and Jay-Z makes a guest appearance to dedicate the album to “anyone people said couldn't make it, to the fans that held us down till everybody came around.” Are you laughing yet? Well, just in case you are unaware of how epic this album is, Hova tells us, “Welcome. It’s here.” The music itself is pretty typical FOB, but loses the listener when bassist/songwriter Pete Wentz and singer Patrick Stump decline to accept the role of emo poster boys. Really? Pete, your street cred as a former member of the Chicago hardcore scene is hanging by a thread. You seem to have gladly accepted all the interviews and photo shoots.

“Infinity on High” takes the listener on a journey through the brain of an emo kid with sinking ship, car crash, trash, and failure imagery each repeated on multiple tracks. If you really examine the lyrics as you’re listening, you can’t help but feel that you’re stuck in a high school poetry class. Wentz throws out gems like “My words are my faith to hell with our good name / A remix of your guts—your insides X-rayed . . .We’re a bull, your ears are just a china shop.” This is actually one of the more stable lyric images; others just plain don’t make sense, “When the lives we lived are only golden-plated / And I knew that the lights of the city were too heavy for me / Though I carried karats for everyone to see.”

The first single, “This Ain’t a Scene, It’s an Arms Race,” will undoubtedly have fans pumping fists and worshipping the band for really understanding the emo mantra: nothing feels good. The repetitive chorus is enough to drive someone to drink themselves into a coma. Listening to this song is like banging your head against a brick wall; it feels good when you stop.

The album drips with classic FOB song titles as well. The band has traditionally named songs using clever pop culture references, and the band has created some of the longest song titles in rock history. Consider the absurdity of songs called “I'm Like A Lawyer With The Way I'm Always Trying To Get You Off (Me & You)” and the grammatically unsound “I've Got All This Ringing In My Ears And None On My Fingers.” Do the songs deal with the titles? No. Do the titles make sense? Not Really.

If it weren’t for Wentz’s makeup and boyish good looks, this band might have stayed out of the limelight, content to tour for fans and avoid the dark side of turning pop. Bottom line: don’t waste your money, and petition radio stations to stop blaring “This Ain’t a Scene.”