It's easy to sound interesting about interesting things, they carry you along. And it's easy to rail compellingly against awful things, because who doesn't love a rant? But faceless mediocrity, that's always a challenge. I have this fantasy of editing an anthology in which I round up a bunch of my favorite authors and have them each compose an essay on Firefall's second album. Quite possibly nobody in the universe except me would be into this, but imagine: Civil War/Reconstruction historian Eric Foner, novelist Tim O'Brien, queer activist Sarah Schulman, hell, since it's a fantasy anyway, James Baldwin and Andrea Dworkin (content of arguments notwithstanding, she writes with fire and I'd love to see her tackle this, a paragon of the banality of patriarchal crooning), all really putting themselves to the test, because this LP gives you so very, very little to work with. Could they thrive so far outside their comfort zones? Or would they draw it inevitably back: Foner to the futility of Gettysburg, O'Brien to the postwar numbness, Schulman to pervasive heteronormativity, Baldwin to the fact that there is no fire this time?
That would be fascinating. Luna Sea, not so much. Somewhere inside its polished aural product Michael Clarke keeps time, thus the Byrds connection. But I played it four times back to back, and I already can't recall a single detail. Because there are none; this is what sonic airbrushing sounds like.
Maybe there's some culture-of-narcissism or deep-70s-malaise or even posthuman allegory to be worked out here, but I'm lazy and settled for Christgau-aping, having come up with this before surrender:
The diminishing returns begin with the title, and never stop. If the debut was Reheated Burrito Brothers, this is Grounded Burrito Bros.
Yeah, well, turns out Christgau himself took a stab at it, and flailed too (though well played at the end). Really the only thing I will ever remember about this album is my mental image of an aggravated Bob Christgau listening to it in 1977, walking in circles around his apartment, and cursing to himself.
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