Pitchfork

The Bravery will tell you they don't know of any nu-rock revival. They just happen to like wearing leather jackets and having their gaunt faces photographed in elevators. Their idea to combine new wave, garage rock, and dance music just popped into their head, because, hey, what if rock bands started doing that? The Bravery aren't fooling anybody: They fit the post-new wave blueprint so immaculately, they're one power chord away from securing a gig at the 2005 VMA's between their rivals the Killers and Razorlight. So here come the Bravery-- hi-hats, synthesizers, mop-tops, ennui, and all.

The Bravery try to resuscitate worn-out 80s pop progressions with squeaky-clean production, wrapping their chord changes with layers of synthesizer and power-pop guitar until something sounds interesting. The results are forgivable but disappointing nonetheless. "Swollen Summer" sorely lacks a jaw-dropping melody to complement its Go-Go's power chords. Other tracks can't quite get their basslines off the ground, partially due to frontman Sam Endicott's inability to go anywhere with the song's one melodic hook.

Endicott is perhaps the most egregious new wave conglomerate around. Shifting through imitations of Robert Smith, Simon Le Bon, and Julian Casablancas, Endicott exercises little subtlety when borrowing from his influences. He reaches into the somber bowels of Disintegration for the haunting vocals on "No Brakes", yet apes Casablancas's sanguine croon on "The Ring Song". Resembling other singers isn't a dealbreaker, but when this likeness occurs multiple times across the course of an album-- and with such disparate singing styles-- it raises a red flag. Throw in a propensity for self-deprecation, and Endicott is a walking Cliff's Notes for new wave revivalists; on "Out of Line" he's "a liar, but not a cheat," on "Unconditional", a "beggar, and...a chooser," and on "Tyrant" he's "stuck just like a pig". The titles alone beat his whole "helpless subjection" bit to death.

Occasionally, these squirrels do stumble across a nut. The chorus of "An Honest Mistake" contains one of the few sassy moments on the album, with Endicott mockingly singing in falsetto "Don't look at me that way/ It was an honest mistake." Also, when you pour three synthesizers into each song, you're bound to find a cool hook, like the one in the verse of "Tyrant". Despite these highlights, though, this is still rock made on an assembly line-- predictable, economically efficient, and about as dynamic as a Model T.