Strata has a problem. Part of it is that the music ultimately fails to distinguish itself in any notable way from the current pack of post-grunge bands, but that’s not the main issue here. The band creates some rich melodies out of dreamy, echoing guitar and driving rhythms on songs like the Candlebox-conjuring “Love Is Life” or “Hot/Cold,” but nothing in the music is extraordinary enough to cover what ultimately dooms this record: the lyrical weaknesses, which are numerous and severe in nature and act as a mallet consistently whacking any furry moles of musical highlights out of sight. The album’s first single, “Cocaine (We’re All Going to Hell),” about an underage girl fatally swept up in a nightlife scene, trips over its own feet during the final verse’s didactic message of, “And so now we can see how easily we become/hopelessly tangled up in the very webs we’ve spun.” Anti-war screed “The New National Anthem” is a clumsy cliché-fest whose message is as unoriginal as its title, and “Poughkeepsie, NY” unwittingly paints the Devil as a cringingly passive salesman. The most interesting parts of the album come in instrumental tracks “The Brothers” and “Natoma Valley.” Though they serve mostly as filler, the sustained drones and drum clicks of these open-structured songs show a side of the band willing to take risks rather than be conscious of making their songs radio-friendly. Also: they don’t have lyrics; the further Strata moves in that direction the better.
--John Frusciante
