The Adored

    A New Language


    If you live in Hollywood, you know the guys in the Adored. Even if you’ve never heard of the band or its music, you know these dudes. They’re pretty, but with a dash of punk snottiness. They’re the loudest guys at the bar at whatever is the new industry hotspot of the nanosecond, talking about all the great old-school punk shows they were in the first row for. They’re getting drunk on anything but beer (how plebian), crowing about how great their band is.


    Yep, guys like these four can talk the talk, but on A New Language, only a few tracks walk the walk. Things start promising. “Tell Me Tell Me” is all rollicking and rolling drums and guitars. For a moment, it sounds like this party could live up to how great the members of the Adored want you to think they are. Then the next track, “Savage Youth,” immediately plummets to the album’s nadir. On it, the boys rep their toughness, even adopting sneering faux-British accents toward the track’s end.


    That’s not the only time it seems the band members wish they were Englishman. The dominant theme here is the power-chord punk of the Sex Pistols (see “The Queen’s Head” and “Ethical Drug,” a fumbled attempt at a rant against Big Pharma) and the Clash (the “White Man in Hammersmith Palais”-like storytelling of “Hold Up!”). When not ripping off those two legends, the Adored (named after the Stone Roses’ “I Wanna Be Adored”) channel, well, other British bands. Case in point: the new-wave leanings of “New Language.”


    Elsewhere, the Adored shows a curious penchant for biting the El Lay hipster hands that feed it. On “Not Having It,” the members complain that there’s “Too much style in this town/ And I’m not having it.” Interesting. Check out any picture on their Web site and see if you don’t agree that they make the Killers look like thugs. By the next song, though, lead singer Ryan (all four members are too cool to divulge their last names) is back to loving the lush life, crooning about the “positively posh chemistry” between him and his new girl.


    At fourteen tracks, the album doesn’t clip like punk should. It drags. By the end, the members of the Adored haven’t invented a new language. They’ve just spoken punk with weakly pronounced syllables.


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