Jason Mraz
Waiting For My Rocket To Come
(Elektra)
----------------
I
once had a dream where I was sitting in a comparative Lit class at
the
University of Michigan. And smack in the middle of my professor’s
lecture, Dave
Matthews bursts into the classroom with an army of angry John Mayer
zombies.
Dave
yells, kill them all! Eat their brains! And the Mayers slowly chug
their way
over
to those frozen-in-fear. The undead then open wide and begin to
chomp on
the
countless minds of impressionable optimistic students who will no
longer
have
a brain to make decisions with, like which frat house will I drink
at
tonight?
I
had forgotten all about this nightmare. That is, until I put on the
Jason
Mraz’s
(sounds like "more a**") Waiting For My Rocket to Come.
Song after song,
this
is the blueprint for the new genre known as "americagenerica."
In fact,
if
this album were any more generic, it would be wrapped in Duane Reade
packaging
with an "Adult Alternative" label emblazoned on it. But
how did this album
become
so popular if it's as awful as I accuse? Well, ya' see, our
standards
are
so low after we've neglected them for so long. Really, anything will
do.
Take
me, for example: at this point, I'll go out with anyone.
And
what makes this album even more insulting is the smug delivery, the
way
Mraz
spews "witty" lyrics from the mouth on his pretty face.
Take this line
from
"I’ll Do Anything," for example:
"Are
you in mood for some dude/ are you in the mood to be subdued?/…let
us
jet
set/ we’ll be like the Jetsons/you can be Jane my wife/should I
marry Jane
tonight."
This is actually just one of the many elbow-in-your-ribs that make
up
this
perfect fodder for SUV’s everywhere (preferably, though, on the
way to
the
beach wearing an Aeropostale bathing suit).
Hey,
he plays his own instruments, he writes his own songs. Isn’t there
some
merit
in that? Yes, one could argue these valid points. One could but one
shouldn’t.
What
takes away the guilty pleasure factor in a pop album of this nature
is
the
level of integrity it strives for. Mraz "earnestly" yelps
every word as if
these
songs are the lifeblood, the essence of his existence but then upon
closer
inspection, you know, you truly deep down know that he recorded
these tunes
just
so they can be featured prime time on the WB. That sort of trickery
doesn’t
bode well with me.
And
I do have to admit; I don’t know what’s going on in Mraz’s
head but upon
superficial
hearing (which is just about all I can take), I am left feeling
empty.
This pain in my stomach can only come from a label creation taken
out of
an
Abercrombie catalogue (I know—my second clothing reference) or
from
hunger.
In this case, it’s both. I need something more or I need something
less.
Mraz
is somewhere in-between, a listening experience that at the end of
the
record
makes me feel like my brain too had been eaten by a John Mayer
zombie. And
that
would be bad because God knows I need it for organizing my upcoming
kegger.
[PS
if you still had any respect for Liz Phair, the indie goddess, even
after
the
last self-titled release, consider this: she opened for Jason Mraz
on his
last
tour. The horror. ]
COMING
UP NEXT: Is the next Jewish Music Revolution being led by Dov
Rosenblatt; a review of the new Blue Fringe album.
To read more from Arye Dworken, check out his new personal
website www.bringbacksincerity.com
Send your comments to Arye at theadwiz@aol.com;
 Readers
Comments:
Copyright © 2002 Bangitout Inc. All rights reserved. If
you've been to this website before, refresh your
page.
| 
