Pitchfork

The Connells suffer from an ailment that most medical journals refer to as "Tom Petty Syndrome." Tom Petty Syndrome (TPS) ensures a long career in music, so it's not without its faults. The symptoms of this strange and so far incurable syndrome are as follows: a musical act releases good album upon good album. All are solid, with a truly great song or two, and a little bit of filler.

The artist's career is also guaranteed never to go sour because Tom Petty Syndrome prevents the artist from making a truly great album. Without a benchmark release, the artist never has to try to top themselves. Sure, the critics might hound them mercilessly about never releasing a great record, but longevity is a certain fate for them.

In the case of the Connells, that's not such a bad thing. For fifteen years, they've been putting out their own brand of quirky jangle- pop with a southern twist. Unlike their contemporaries, R.E.M., the Connells have never put out a great album-- merely a series of good ones. And Still Life is no exception. It features a great song, "Crown," a couple of clunkers like "Glade," and a bunch of pretty good songs sandwiched in between. But if there's a benefit to longevity without fame, it's that the Connells have become a tight group of musicians that know how to write a catchy pop song. And they should-- after all, they've had fifteen years of practice.

Everything about Still Life screams "good." Mike Connell and George Huntley's guitar work is nice and solid; nothing brilliant, but aesthetically pleasing. Doug MacMillan's voice isn't incredible, either. He misses a note sometimes, but for the type of music the Connells play, it fits. The rhythm section is solid, providing a simple, basic backbeat that accentuates the subtlty of the songs. In short, the Connells were probably all b-students way back in their college days at UNC.

So while R.E.M. sails the musical seas, looking for a new sound in the post- Berry era, the Connells just keep doing what they do best: recording catchy pop albums that barely stray from the formula of solid, melodic pop tinged with introspection and moody irony. This is one instance where the world should hope that Tom Petty Syndrome is terminal.