The Damned
So, Who’s Paranoid?
(English Channel, 2009)

“Lifeless outing” and “Damned record” are two phrases I hate using together, but here they certainly necessitate conjunction. The breezy goth pop on So, Who’s Paranoid? sorely lacks the charisma, panache, and oomph of your average Damned outing; the cheeky Brit group that once excelled at making six minutes of pouty keyboard-rock a fun listen now labors to fill half that time. Could blame be placed squarely at the feet of (relatively) new bass player Stu West? He does come from the same area in England that produced sappy songwriting phenomenon Bernie Taupin (Lincolnshire). I’d be lying if I said certain songs on So, Who’s Paranoid? didn’t remind me of Elton John.

Naw, we can’t blame ol’ Stu. He’s just the bass player. That might mean something in Primus or the Red Hot Chili Peppers, but this is the Damned. Bass is pretty much the seventh most important element in this band (behind vocals, guitars, drums, melody, and clean berets). A more likely culprit is fatigue. The Damned have been at the whole gloom rock thing for over 30 years now. They’ve become one of those bands whose former member roster could constitute a small army. Where do you go once you’ve conquered table-pounding pub rock punk (Damned Damned Damned), cartoon prog rock punk (Machine Gun Etiquette), frilly, ruffled-shirt punk (The Black Album), and nonsensically-titled fairytale punk (I’m Alright Jack and the Beanstalk)? How could these guys not be running on fumes?

On the other hand, the last Damned effort, 2001’s punchy Grave Disorder, was an unexpectedly fun, moody delight. Perhaps the blokes were just off their game for this Paranoid business. After all, they did take a nearly eight-year break between these two albums. It’s been eight years since I worked a cash register at Eckerd, which was America’s drug store before CVS bought it and ripped out all the carpeting. I’d hate to have to go in there tomorrow and work lane one for a typical eight-hour shift. I don’t remember how to enter discounts manually. I can’t recall which manager needs to sign off on a return. Hell, I can’t even remember if I’m supposed to tuck my shirt in. Getting back on the horse can be scary and daunting.

Only on the chaotic, rip-roaring, and penultimate track “Nothing” do the Damned of Paranoid sound anything like the mismatched menagerie of musical misfits that initially rose to fame with little more than a few rollicking rhythms and a saucy, sassy attitude. The rest of this thinly produced misfire borders on Andrew Friggin’ Lloyd Webber (“Nature’s Dark Passion” could damn well be directly from Phantom of the Opera and I wouldn’t be surprised, what with that painfully pinched and grandiose delivery). Don’t even get me started on “Dr. Woofenstein”, a song I pray to God the Damned were forced at gunpoint to write for some direct-to-video kiddie horror cartoon.

I will freely admit that I did not have a whole hell of a lot of time to get acquainted with So, Who’s Paranoid? before I chose to write this review.* This album, like chess and Philip Seymour Hoffman, might be a grower. Yet I know my own personal history with the Damned. I have experienced moments of utter transcendence upon virgin listens of every preceding album in their catalog. This is the first time I felt nothing after one complete spin. Sorry, oiks, but I’m not paranoid. I’m flat-out disappointed. As far as I’m concerned, the only stellar element of the 10th Damned full-length is its novelty mirror cover. It’s fun to look at myself and pretend I’m in a famous band.

* = Yeah, I know this shizzle came out last November, but that’s the beauty of Crawdaddy!—occasionally, if you’re passionate enough (and if they’re desperately in need of filler), you can write about something you just heard regardless of its timeliness.

Listen: Various Tracks [at officialdamned.com]

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