New Rocket Summer Album Fails to Entertain

by Leah Braunschweiler
11.8.07

This is merely a warning, an informative piece designed to warn the public of a recently released CD.  My eardrums and I have become but humble martyrs, slain by the harsh whining vocals of The Rocket Summer’s Bryce Avary, which are showcased so perfectly in his new album “Do You Feel.”

For anyone searching for something new and intriguing to listen to, the mildly interesting, but not too terribly interesting cover appears as though it just might deliver. Purchase the album however, and you will be grossly mistaken.

After popping the disc in and enduring about five seconds of the single “So Much Love,” prepare to projectile vomit all over yourself and anyone within range. The introductory piano ditties featured in a few songs are semi-enjoyable, but as soon as the guitar and percussion, in combination with Avary’s singing, kick in, “Do You Feel” will take you on a crazy trip to nausea city—population, you.

Granted Avary is talented in his ways of playing multiple instruments (I would be much more impressed if he were playing them all at the same time).  However, the same cannot be said of his vocal qualities. A howling mangled cat lodged under the tire of an eighteen-wheeler would be far more enjoyable to listen to than Mr. Avary here.

And if his maudlin nasally vocals weren’t irritating enough, of course he has to play the overly optimistic card and paint himself as the “passionate musician” un-phased by the perks a career in entertainment offers, as if that is anything profound.

According to Island Records, Avary is “wanting to do greater things for this world, and not just trying to be a rock n’ roll star.” Blah, blah, blah, how cliché.
“I think we all have that desire, but our issues and daily life get in the way,” Avary said.

Well thank you Captain Obvious. The entire world didn’t necessarily need a tiny blonde musician to inform them of this. I didn’t even make it all the way through one song before I wanted to take a break and go fix myself a club sandwich.

I would not, under any circumstances, even if someone threatened to tickle me to death, listen to that abomination of an album ever again—and if you care about the survival of eardrums, you will refrain from buying the album as well. Or if you do, anticipate disappointment like a swift samurai sword to the gut. You have just committed seppuku.