Review by Dorothy Parvaz
Here come Creed, part of the next batch of derivative record-label darlings. With their muddy guitars and cross-I-bear lyrics, Creed sound like a mix of the Tea Party (they're touring down south with these guys, by the way), Stone Temple Pilots and Seven Mary Three [ed. or, exactly like Nickelback]. Then again, those bands themselves sound like the Doors, Pearl Jam and late-80s Metallica. Or maybe they sound like... well, you get the picture. This isn't to say that Creed aren't allowed to have any influences, but damn, there is a difference between being influenced by a band and being its doppleganger.
Oh, it's not as bad as it seems. The boys in Creed know how to play their instruments, and as sophomoric as their brand of anxiety is, at least it's heart-felt. No, really. It's pretty sincere stuff, but sadly, not the best written stuff. One listen to the first single, My Own Prison's title track, and you'll realize just how rare good angst-rock is. "The walls are cold and pale/ The cage made of steel/ Screams fill the room/ Alone I drop and kneel... Demons cluttering around/ My face showing no emotion..." Oh man.
Pretty much all of Creed's songs are the same, and there's a pretty good reason for that: They're all about singer Scott Stapp. Stapp is sort of like that one friend you have who is always droning on about how depressed he/she is, and who somehow seems to fail to take any opportunity to step outside his/her "own prison." And you know who will really dig this disc? The quintessential Bud-drinking, tight-jeans-wearing tough guy who usually hangs out by the speakers at any party and whips his neck back and forth, all the while scowling to show his inner pain to the outside world.
Someone should've told Stapp that most bands stopped imitating Eddie Vedder years ago... Now if he could only do a convincing Alanis... Kidding.
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