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Southcott - Flee the Scene Review

by Rob Nipe

If you were into music growing up, there was probably a band that appealed to you. You would wait to hear the song on the radio, imaging yourself as part of the band. Just like the "Hot for Teacher" video. You would be a child in this childish grown up world singing/playing/dancing on stage with the band. It's alright. We all did it. I had an unfortunate dalliance with Yes that I'd like to forget. So, seriously, unless it was the Backstreet Boys, I got you beat. Of course, most musicians grow out of this phase and-while there may be traces of these bands left in their sound-they don't go ahead and write songs that could come directly from that band's catalogue.

Southcott never got that memo.

Southcott has created an album that easily could have been made by Taking Back Sunday. Great news for Taking Back Sunday fans. Bad news for people who wanted to be Southcott fans. I mean, I like Taking Back Sunday but I think they are doing just fine without Southcott's help. Seriously, Southcott back off. We need some time apart.

Southcott does a great job of covering all the bases. They have dueling vocals. They have great guitar licks. They have angsty lyrics that make me embarrassed whenever I read them but not when I hear them sung. Take, for example, the song "Sin City: Your Sheets, My Legacy" (groan…). "So dance, dance with me, Between the bed sheets. And we can play these games for hours, But we can't play them forever, After I leave, You'll only speak, to my answering machine." Bizarre comma placement aside, it is this kind of generic, junior high poetry that gives bands like Southcott a bad name. They are good musicians. Really they are. But these lyrics make the songs sound like they are being sung by people who watched their older brother from their bedroom window feel up a girl in the backseat of their parents' car on prom night. They are trying to talk a big game. You see, dancing between the sheets means they are having sex. You get it? Do you? Sooooo clever. Oh. My. God. Look. At Her. Butt.

Grow up. Act your age. Please. I'm begging you. Or don't include the lyrics. Then, I can pretend that they are something else entirely. Did they say "So dance, dance with me. Between the bed sheets."? I don't think so. I heard "So pants, pants, Whitney. The sheen of med feet."

Much better.

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Southcott - Flee the Scene

Label:Rush Records

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