The Draft/In a Million Pieces: Epitaph

One part of me was reluctant to toss this in the player, feeling it would mimic the failings of “Cut the Crap” by the Clash, no, not the electro-funk gone awry, but the whole idea of reinventing basically the same band minus an important player, when sometimes the missing link becomes all too glaring, like a glitch in the fabric. Still, this is ¾ Hot Water Music under the helm of new band name The Draft, and it actually feels sonically similar to “Caution” (released by Epitaph in 2002), though with even more maturity and mid-period Leatherface yearnings (think: Minx). Although Chris Wollard’s punk-embellished side is still probably best found on his side-project The Crows (who used to cover the Big Boys, all humid hoarseness and gator-mouthed!), this slab of coated aluminum won’t alienate anyone, even HWM purists, unless they are still stuck in 1990s mode, waiting for the atonal, sea chanty-esque, hairy emo belching that made HWM’s early path a godsend to all the post-hardcore kids. In fact, this feels a little too par for the course, too over-regulated, and the “variety” espoused by the label promotion is a bit overstated. Yes, there’s some implanted ska on “Let it Go,” though it’s more like Mighty Bosstones, all gruff and skanky, not lightweight Third Wave black and white moonska high school band dork party platters. In addition, on “All We Can Count On” there is a slow churning soup of anthemic rendering, thoughtful and FM radio style, which is replayed on “The Tide is Out,” minus the huge barroom chorus calls. The edges have been rubbed a bit smooth, the approach settles down in the middle of the road, but as Wollard wails on the first track, “New Eyes Open,” it’s simply “that’s what I like about it/it’s not so complicated,” which can be over-analyzed by all the Punk Planet scribblers till they go blue in the face. In the meantime, if you were looking for melody and heartfelt hot streaks at all the right junctions, without worrying about Wollard being too self-conscious, slick, over-heated fake feisty, and caked in last millennium’s stinging sweat and beer leftovers, then this may be your thermometer. It’s not the blackout, but it’s not Foghat either.

Worth three potato chips.