I feel like a bit of an ingrate. I got the latest Eels album and it’s not very good. This itself is unremarkable: I own several albums, and Eels has made bad ones before. The remarkable thing is that the album isn’t even out at the time of this writing. Also, I didn’t steal it from the internet. Their label was kind enough to send me the whole thing –unsolicited I might add — in hopes that I would enjoy it and talk it up a bit. That seems unusually generous for a record label. In this day and age you shouldn’t email whole albums by major artists to just any under-25 tech-savvy music journalist before it even hits the shelves. You’re practically begging me to leak it. But I didn’t leak it. I sat in my room, at night, with the door closed, and listened to the album with headphones so that I, and only I, could hear this secret gift. I don’t know why I bothered. It’s pretty lame.

You understand that I’m reluctant to take this stance. It feels a little like killing the goose that lays the golden egg. Suppose it gets around that I bad-mouth music that I get sent in advance for free? Maybe the well will dry up. I don’t take this shit lightly. But then, what kind of music journalist would I be if I gave an undeserved good review just because some record company fat cat buttered me up, sent me a record he thought I’d like BEFORE IT EVEN CAME OUT to make me feel special, then tried to put his hand down my pants in the taxicab? Wouldn’t I just be a shill? A whore? Am I only in it for the free music, the attention, the website traffic? No. I have to stay true to my principles. I have to value my taste in music, which is what got me in this position in the first place. I have to tell it like it is: The Eels upcoming album ‘End Times’ is a dreary bag of ass and I do not like it.

Notice how much of this review talks about the psychological dilemma in the reviewer’s soul rather than the music ostensibly being reviewed. That’s a bad sign. There is very, very little to talk about with respect to this album. It is competent but lazy California-style alternablues. That’s it. That’s all there is to say; if you like that kind of thing, well, you’ll like this okay. Happy birthday to you. It is fucking boring. In fact, it is B-O-R-I-N-G written in all capital letters with a hyphen between each letter.

The album opens with some faded-away guitar playin’ and some croonin’ about how things aren’t as good as they used to be. Then there’s a more upbeat, bouncy blues-rock number that sounds, to me, a bit like T. Rex. Then you’ve got fifteen straight minutes of songs that would be PERFECT for the last track on other, better albums – you know, the slow, sleepy track that says “Hey, thanks for listening all the way through, buddy, it’s time to go get another beer and put on a different CD.” Then there’s ‘Paradise Blues,’ which I’ll admit is a catchy and fun 12-bar-blues number that actually kind of rocks. You should quit here, because every song that follows is broken. Either the song tries something different and it doesn’t work, or it’s too slow, simple, and glum to be interesting. End of album. It’s a real drag start to finish.

I should say in fairness that the lyrics tend to be pretty good. I suppose they set themselves apart from other faux-rustic California alternablues whatever-you-want-to-call-it in that they will say bad words when you don’t expect them too. If that tickles your pickle, well, give it a listen. If you need a CD to put on while you’re working on your taxes or paying the bills, this may do the trick: it kills the silence without commanding your attention in any way. And if the label sends it to you for free before it comes out in stores, shit, you should listen to it and then gripe about it on the internet. See if you get anything for free ever again.

Rating: Two empty beer bottles (out of six)

(Note: MP3s to be added soon… patience.)