Cage The Elephant, Melophobia

That’s not a compliment. Three albums in a row, the band has reached for the parts of American rock music that they like best, photocopied them together like a teenager making a flyer for a punk rock show out of cut up magazines, and presented them inelegantly for a listening public eager to digest something it already knows.

I don’t mean that as an indictment of rock radio fans: it’s a bleak time out there and you get your guitar riffs where you can. No, I blame a corporate system that pushes all creativity out of the process, a flooded musical market where standing out becomes more and more difficult, but mostly I blame Cage the Elephant for not even trying to stand on the shoulders of their idols. They seem much more content to tear off their faces and wear them like masks.

Their third album, Melophobia, rips every one of its ideas from the recent and not-so-recent past and presents them garishly, like a cat bringing a dead bird to an owner’s doorstep. Have you heard the Doors? Have you heard Wilco? Nirvana? The Beatles? Credence Clearwater Revival? The Kinks? Do you want the things you like about those bands delivered to you without the personality of any of those bands? Soup’s up.

Look, Melophobia is fine. It’s well made and it sounds like there’s some significant studio money behind it. The band plays its instruments well enough and sings its songs without wandering too far out of key. It’s pleasant and bland and forgettable and will sound fine in a 45 minute set at a rock festival. If you like this, you aren’t wrong. You will, however, forget this album exists within six months. I don’t mind that Cage the Elephant rips off rock music, I mind that they do it so brainlessly. Call it McNugget rock.

Rating: Intolerable