Though these post-grunge warriors call their latest album "Golden State," Bush should have called it "Garden State" (so as to avoid confusion with the Bon Jovi album "New Jersey"). The reason? You'd be amazed at the parallels between them and the swamp-dwellers known as the New Jersey Nets. You don't know anyone who likes them, yet they have to have fans; otherwise, they wouldn't be around any more, right?
Bush and the Nets both showed some promise earlier in the decade, but every time they got your hopes up, they blew it by the time the next single or the next season comes up. And you have to wonder if there's some hex that will cause them to suck for eternity.
If you're not a sports fan, just think of it this way: getting compared to the Nets is like being called fat, ugly and stupid all at the same time, while your mother can't even pay attention because she's so poor.
In Bush's defense, you can't really accuse them of being Nirvana clones any more. On this album, the band rips off who I've always suspected have been its favorite artist: itself.
No matter which way you shake it, most songs on "Golden State" resemble "Sixteen Stone's" pillars of success. "Everything Zen" was Bush's Dr. J, its last bastion of greatness, regardless of how silly it was at the time. "The People That We Love" and "Hurricane" mimic the template of "Zen": the guitarist takes a smoke break during the verses, the title gets yelled a few times in the chorus and once the song ends, you have no idea what it was about.
"Headful Of Ghosts" dresses up pretty guitar arpeggios in grunge sonics much like "Comedown" did. "Out Of This World" dies the same slow death of "Glycerine" and "Letting The Cables Sleep," puttering around with some weird string and machine noises that makes you guess the band likes better music than it makes.
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This is a "return to the rock" album to the max, and fortunately, Bush doesn't get all Billy Corgan on us and make a big fuss about it. It's a smart move, as the "My First Electronica" they peddled on "The Science Of Things" got the "Adore" treatment of poor sales without the critical hoo-hah to back it up. It was a little surprising: even though the bleeping noises didn't draw the Radiohead crowd, you would think "The Disease Of Dancing Cats" and "Jesus Online" would entice some kids used to those sort of horrendous song titles.
Enter a new label, a new producer, and a new lease on life, which Bush occasionally takes advantage of. "Reasons" is juiced by off-kilter snare hits and "Hurricane" will rock you like one if you let it. "Superman" has some good hooks, but then again, it's another goddamn tune about Superman, a muse which has created some awful songs recently (you know who you are). Then the next song, "Fugitive," goes and nicks the chords from "Loser." Memo to Bush: Copying Nirvana: OK. Copying 3 Doors Down: Worthy of flogging.
Unfortunately, on his fourth go-round, Gavin Rossdale is still frustratingly inscrutable, tossing off noodle-scratching non-sequiturs like that other famous Bush. And while the welfare of sickly felines are no longer a big concern, lines like "I stand around at American weddings/...At my best when I'm terrorist inside" aren't exactly shedding much light on what's going on inside Gavin's pretty-boy exterior. The problem isn't so much that you can't feel his pain, it's that you get the feeling he's guessing at his own. Which is a real shame, because God knows I want to feel the pain associated with sleeping on top of a huge pile of money with Gwen Stefani (note to Gavin: that rhymed!).
Listening to "Golden State" involves accepting a lot of things about Bush. First, the band can rock, and there's no reason there won't be a few hits here, even if nothing quite matches the slam-dunk "hit" obviousness of "Comedown" or "Everything Zen." And clearly, someone as charmed as Rossdale does not occupy our corner of the world, so we'll probably never truly understand him.
Lastly, you come to terms with the fact that Bush has lasted long enough to make an album relatively better than those of the majority of alt-rock kingpins of 2001. Bush is no longer caught up in its self-invented importance, and most songs find themselves on the good side of the catchy/annoying line. It's kind of empty, though, because somehow the feeling sinks in that this is as good as Bush is going to get. "Golden State" is the equivalent of the Nets getting the 7th seed in the playoffs.
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