omebody’s been using preprogrammed synthesizer sounds—the culprit? East River Pipe. A problem arises in one’s music when every sound used has been used to miserable death since the 1980s. Between the generic instrumentation and ultra-clean, edgeless production, Gardbageheads On Endless Stun is woefully in need of some garbage (and by that, I mean some dirt; not the group fronted by Shirley Manson). Everything sounds so damn pristine on this CD—so polite, so white. This can be tolerated when dealing with better instrumentation and superior song writing (e.g. any Belle & Sebastian effort), but in addition to the preprogrammed synthesizer sounds, we have a weak collection of songs.


“Where Does All The Money Go?” starts the album off with its featherweight jab at “millionaires” (a continual rubbing point on Garbageheads on Endless Stun) and “slobs in SUVs”. The singer and the backing music, however, doesn’t offer the sweat and cry of revolution, but rather a tepid, indie-pop drag. This is an innocuous brand of muzak that “millionaires” would never find threatening. Or parents. Or supermarket managers. Or elevators. “I Won’t Dream About The Girl” is surely the result of one unchallenging hour with a keyboard; musically, vocally and lyrically the songs mopes forward with very little effort—which can be said for the album on a whole. An obvious pattern takes form by the fourth track, “I Bought A Gun In Irvington”: slow paced, simpleminded synth chords sustaining, gentle, late 1980s college rock guitar, soft wallpaper rhythm and slight lyrics that suggest cleverness more than exhibit it. The fifth track, “Girls On The Freeway”, does nothing to break this pattern and makes me wonder where all the traffic on this “freeway” is and where the hell are the girls! It sounds more like an isolated white guy floating on a medicated cloud over a deserted road...hankering to break out in a sulky indi-country song—which he does with the sixth track, “The Long Black Cloud”. Track seven, “Arrival Pad #9”, is the only point on the album where things pick up to fair effect. With an actual beat, grooving bass-line and a semi-catchy chorus, the first half of the terse “Arrival Pad #9” is promising pop; but then East River Pipe does nothing interesting with it...it simply putters out. Speaking of puttering, did I mention that this album drags—dear god, somebody shoot this dying dog—imagine a snapless Postal Service on heavy downers and you’ll grasp East River Pipe’s sound. Or imagine the Pet Shop Boys without their disco pulse and amusing level of daintiness. Or, how about this: you don’t give East River Pipe a single thought.