All Odds Against
Self Titled
2.7
Forty-two seconds into the first track, my balls were sucked up into my body and I started praying for death.
Singer: “I never said goodbyeeeeee!”
Screamer: “I NEVER SAID GOODBYE!”
It didn't matter how I checked out at that point. I could've been raped to death by STD-infested wild boars with razorblades superglued to their 'appendages' and I still would've cried muffled tears of joy, buried under three tons of pig porking. Because, polluting my ears was a style of music so foul that even saying its name would summon a mascara-wearing Candyman who would attempt to shoehorn my junk into size 0 jeans. Yes, I'm talking about more subscribers to Watered-down Core Cliché Monthly (Issue #47: Finding Your Inner Alexisonfire and Ten Bedroom Tips that will Make Him Go Crazy!).
All Odds Against is yet another band trying to fuse The Opposite of December (or The Frailty of Words, or 10.21, or Jhazmyne's Lullaby and on and on and on…) with the wear-your-heart-on-your-pink-sleeve, pop-punkified bullshit that swept across the U.S. like a fad firestorm. So, you might as well start jamming that soldering iron into your ear now, because you will be mercilessly subjected to the following played-out trademarks: Busy runs that sound like an amateurish Shai Hulud shot full of estrogen, wonky singing meant to contrast dull razor-throated roars, and forced melodic sections offset by the dunderheaded dissonant riffs. Not only is it a boring, by-the-numbers rehash of the “oil and water/beauty meets br00tal” craze, but it plays out like a how-to checklist for getting a raccoon-eyed, scene swallower's panties moist. Not surprisingly, it's a derivative mess, but what is surprising is that this hit the streets last year.
I was originally under the impression that all of the bands that plopped out of From Autumn to Ashes’s mangina five to six years ago were hunted to extinction by Botch revivalists, Dudeius Brodira, or scruffy, fashion-conscious lumberjacks. So, hearing All Odds Against’s pseudo-core was like seeing a dodo playing with Pogs; not only was it out of date and really late to the game, you had to question why it even existed at all. All Odds Against has done nothing to make their songs stand out in any way. They unskillfully exploit a dying style while plundering the recognizable traits of the trend’s influences. Even if they were able to stumble upon some unique qualities, this style’s battered body isn’t cold enough for the band to even be a lame “ironic” reminder of past embarrassments like all of those kids currently reviving ‘80s kitsch. Instead, All Odds Against are just lame, period, especially for trying to sell an album at an EP price when the sound quality isn’t even on par with a rough demo.
Look, if you still sport a swoop and close MySpace bulletins with “im soo sorry<3,” eat up. For the MetalReview faithful, forty-two seconds into the first track is all you’re going to need to make up your mind. I’d be more understanding and accepting of All Odds Against if this was sent our way as a demo, but they have a lot of gall passing this off as an actual release. Bring on the boars and the sweet relief of death.
