A Rocket To The Moon
On Your Side

A Rocket To The Moon - On Your Side

The monotony overwhelms. A chorus flies by and I barely look up from my fourth plate of nachos. Some people drink when they’re upset – and even worse, some people write pop songs – but I just eat. Plate after plate after plate of squirrel soup, peanut casserole or pizza. Never has an album begat so many munchies. Every time I feel full or sick to my stomach, another bland “I Miss You REAL BAD” mantra flies by and I must once again stuff my face with that which makes me fat and happy. It might seem like a lazy mechanism, but so is A Rocket To The Moon’s music. There’s no soul, no urgency and definitely no sustainability. I’d be offended that On Your Side existed if it didn’t mean so much pepperoni pizza.

Remembering this album is like me recounting a favorite sexual experience. I’ll look away, mumble something about unkempt body hair, and hope you change the subject. However, big electric guitars do occasionally replace Midwest-via-LA wooden ones. This attempt at twang only makes the shortcomings more obvious. Nick Santino’s voice might sound like the one on this record, but for his sake I hope the high-pitched snarl was just a result of the producer falling asleep on some of those doohickey buttons that make Fueled By Ramen records post-2005. The faux-strength of drum machined-to-death “Life of the Party” and the, ugh, “ballad” “Baby Blue Eyes” sound so contrived that I can’t believe this isn’t just an elaborate joke on yours truly; which is to say, someone with stunning good looks and a working brain. 

For those Forever The Sickest Kids half-fans who hate the band because they are just a tad too smart, A Rocket To The Moon will fill your idiotic black hole with enough substance to get you through whichever Vonnegut book you’re pretending to understand. And if The Maine’s music is a turn off because they are popular and, you know, god forbid!, songs like “Give A Damn” will hit you perfectly in the sense that nobody else could even pretend to find merit in them. “She likes the taste of Captain Morgan / Cigarettes, oh she adores them / She can get a little crazy sometimes / Tight shirts and mini skirts / Her family is rich so she’ll never work / She’s always on my mind,” are real lyrics, from a (presumably) real band. But if this band isn’t real, if they are part of some alien-engineered apocalyptic plan, I won’t be all that surprised. So, I guess, grab another bag of Cheetos and wait for the end to come. Let’s hope it’s sooner than later.

This article was originally published on AbsolutePunk.net