Pet Genius Pet Genius

Since his time in Cave In, Stephen Brodsky has had an active following (and release calender). Their 2003 album Antenna landed a major label (which didn't last long) release and presented a poppier, relatively softer sound that wasn't generally accepted by the long-time fans. This direction was also displayed in his solo project preceding the label jump, and in newer projects New Idea Society and last years short lived Octave Museum. The sunshiny day approach worked well but left many people wondering where the big riff went. Well, Brodsky is back in business with Cave In counterpart Hydra Head, and he's brought some old friends with him. Pet Genius is rounded out by another part Octave Museum on bass and the Doomriders drum demon, officially Johnny Coolbreeze and J.R. John Junior, respectively. They released the unreleased Elvis Demo not too long ago and toured lightly, which left many in quiet anticipation of this self-titled full length. The album opener "Doomsday" shares the dirty reverb and stripped-down song structure that the EP introduced, as Brodsky howls his oh's the whole way through until they stumble into the more peaceful "The Visiting Dynamiter." This pattern repeats itself once more past the would-be hit single "Walls of Etiquette" and "Man of the Mountain," where the simple riffs and steady beats leave me puzzling what Black Sabbath would have sounded like at Woodstock. A curious double take sitting at the center of the album finds Brodsky in release of some salty noodling, and the power half-hour is over after two more bass lines you couldn't chew on enough to soften up. "Trash Heap Swing," as it sounds, seemed an oddly placed (and unnecessary) waste, but the title came back into play during "Scrapyard King," which is the albums longest and most formal song. The production is where it needs to be and the lyrics I'm sure are about something miraculously useless, but who the hell cares, it's a rock album. Bottom Line: Pet Genius is Boston's answer to a savvier White Stripes, the kind of noise rock a Beach Boys raised eight-year-old Buzz Osborne dreamt of. It's more of a nuisance pet than a genius, something that keeps outsmarting you despite its lower trophic level, something you can't see hiding under the glass coffee table and behind those fauxhogany rabbit statues you keep by the front door. Not quite as catchy as "Get Out" and not nearly as heavy as "Moral Eclipse," we are looking at a new era that is still unmistakably Brodsky, something that lacks in complexity and originality but redeems itself in execution. Your neighbors won't be confident enough to yell at you for playing it too loudly.