Simple Plan (3 stars)
Still Not Getting Any...
If nothing else, the second album from Montreal's Simple Plan proves they are not a pop-punk band. No, these guys are arena rock all the way, as evidenced by the presence of producer Bob Rock, known for working with arena heavyweights like Metallica and Bon Jovi, and getting larger-than-life sounds out of smaller bands, from Veruca Salt to Our Lady Peace. Here, Rock takes the boys of Simple Plan and polishes their angst until it shines, helping refine the catchy hooks, big guitars and monster choruses they developed on their debut.
The band's songwriting is still the same though, which means the lyrics are generic lamentations of life being a bummer (as on the lead single, "Welcome to My Life") and the choruses all blend together. The album's best songs are its two extremes, the sarcastic "Thank You," which is the closest thing to punk rock on here, and the lighter-flicking power ballad, "Untitled," complete with a swelling string section and a bitchin' guitar solo.
The rest of it will probably satisfy the mall punks who comprise Simple Plan's core audience, and appeal to the maximum number of radio formats. Whether they can break out of the malls and into the arenas remains to be seen.
Dizzee Rascal (2 stars)
Showtime
Like basketball, hip-hop is an American export embraced in all corners of the world, but unlike basketball, the genre's foreign practitioners haven't matured as fast as hoops' overseas practioners.
If British wordsmith Dylan Mills (Dizzee Rascal) is any indication, foreign usurpation of American hip-hop—it's already happened in basketball, witness the meltdowns in the Olympics and 2003 world championships—is some time away.
But not inevitable. How long depends on whether Mills and other MCs can capture an American hip-hop ear that gorges on homogenized rap and has become averse to the idiosyncrasies of British hip-hop: the fusion with jungle music and techno (trip-hop), the video-game sounding beats (Think Pharrell squared), and most of all, the erudite accents. Mills' second album this year, Showtime, comes close to recreating U.S. hip-hop, albeit hip-hop filtered through a British ear.
Sonically as distinct as an Outkast offering—assorted blips and beeps, herky-jerky tempos—the 15-track CD, sadly, breaks no new ground, instead sticking to the American formula for hip-hop success: rapping about nothing in general but weaving in sex, money and murder, somehow. Where "Graftin'" finds Mills rapping at Twista speed about life in the 'hood; "Learn" offers verbal beat-downs (and physical ones, if needed) to the competition; and "Respect Me" sports a plodding, DJ Screw-like beat and a chorus revealing Mills' ultimate intent: "You people are gonna respect me if it kills you."
Respect isn't Mills problem—he could probably sauteé many platinum American rappers and he's earned props from the likes of Jay-Z and Pharrell. His downfall is that he's too Americanized, suppressing his inner lyrical spitfire for tough-guy braggadocio. Rhyming about London's war zones isn't likely to resonate with kids in Compton, Houston's Fifth Ward, Brooklyn, East Baltimore, Miami's Liberty City or other American ghettoes. On "Fickle," Mills raps that "the music industry is so fickle"—apparently failing to realize he's contributing to the problem.