Pitchfork

Man, are these guys ever pissed off! Their sullen, angry disposition suggests, possibly, damaged childhoods in some rural Florida trailer park overrun with potential serial killers. But these pasty- faced puppy dogs are, in truth, about as menacing as With Sympathy- era Ministry. Fueled by a healthy dose of Jesus Jones pomposity and phony Nine Inch Nails angst, these Industrial- lite Goth pansies consistently succeed in embarrassing themselves-- one unbearable track after another.

The worldwide success of antichrist entrepreneur Marilyn Manson has made it easier for vacuous creeps like Love In Reverse to attract the interest of major label scouts. Their attempts at songwriting are so misguided and tasteless that, at first, you think they must be joking. One marvels at these lines from "American Cream": "Well, I dunno why it's such a big deal/ When I was a child I rode a big wheel." The song's a mushy condemnation of the public's fascination with sensationalism and filth; and, sadly, we find that Love In Reverse are nostalgic for the simple, dignified entertainment values of yore: "I dunno why there's so many talk shows/ When I was a kid we had 13 channels." Edith Bunker couldn't have said it better.

There's no real challenge involved in making an album like this-- the target market's pretty obvious. Just put the drum machine on cruise control, keep a swirl of samples and guitar loops droning along, and sing real dark and spooky- like. Suddenly, hordes of disaffected 11- year- olds will be forking over their weekly allowances for this crap. Puerile nihilism sells plenty of units, make no mistake. But they really do want you to identify with their pain and share in their bogus existential misery. The world's simply a mess unless they're carted around in black stretch limos, outfitted in designer Goth attire, and can successfully molest a gaggle of underage Goth-girl groupies backstage.

I suppose, for me, the most touching moment of the album is when Love In Reverse shares the affecting, heartfelt story of how they became tortured, melancholic mopes: "Black became my temple/ Black became my eyes/ Black is takin' over/ Black controls my life." This tender acoustic ode to the band's dark side owes more to bands like Kansas and Winger than it does to Bauhaus. And much like those hair bands of yesteryear, these guys have absolutely nothing to say, yet they take themselves so unbelievably seriously that the end result is self- parody. In fact, this is some of the best unintentional musical comedy released since Pat Boone's In a Metal Mood.