Things That Make You Want to Scream

Feb. 23, 2009
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Chris Cornellís cursed third solo album opens with the singer denouncing a ďbitchĒ he met in a club, and doesnít get any more tasteful from there. The oft-delayed album has long been a laughing stock on music blogs, and sure enough, the final product is every bit the travesty it was portended to be.

Managing to conjure the execrable masculinity of rap-rock without actually rapping or rocking, Scream pairs Cornellís unctuous, hard-rock wail with Timbalandís minimalist bump íní grind. The production certainly isnít the problem here. Timbaland's beats are fine, if uninspired. They could very well be leftovers from his Nelly Furtado sessions, only here promiscuous girl has been replaced by greasy dude.

Scream is an album that aims for the clubs but is too icky for even the dankest strip club. Between the post-modern synths, disinterested, vocoded backing vocals and hammy, butt-rock groaning, it plays like one of Prince Paulís scathing satires of contemporary music, but with every dire, desperate note, Cornell attests that heís dead serious.

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