Grade: C
The Foo Fighters are not an “album” band.
When it comes to singles, the band has definitely got that down pat, but when it comes to a full-length release, I liken the quality of their catalog to a Dalmatian.
Because it’s spotty in most places.
Eh? See what I did there?
Moving on.
Up until “Wasted Light,” every Foo Fighters album yielded a few great singles but always came up short with having a consistent level of compositions on par with said singles.
That’s a shame, considering frontman Dave Grohl’s impressive résumé. He’s been featured in bands such as Queens of the Stone Age, Them Crooked Vultures and Probot, among others.
However, when 2011 brought about the creation of the aforementioned “Wasted Light,” Grohl and company hit close to the bull’s-eye.
Never had the band unleashed such a violent torrent of energetic tenacity to create an album as vicious and searingly hot that, as a result, became known as its best work to date.
But, as with every caffeine high, the crash is soon to follow.
Enter “Sonic Highways.”
Saddled with the gimmick where all eight songs were recorded individually in different cities, it was apparent Grohl wanted to try and harness the various vibes and sounds of these locations to make a more diverse and expansive album.
But just because you try something different doesn’t make it a successful effort.
“Sonic Highways” is a regression from “Wasted Light” in that the vitality of the band seems to be struggling to match the high standards of its previous album.
They certainly come close with exceptional songs such as “Something from Nothing” and “The Feast and the Famine,” but just when the adrenaline never seems stop, it comes to a grinding halt with “Subterranean.”
From there on out, the rest of the songs have some good ideas going for them but are too long and drawn-out to make any sort of lasting impact, and they become flaccid, shallow and unconvincing in the end.
With some trimming, they could have been decent songs at the very least.
“Sonic Highways” is by no means an awful album, but after its predecessor blew up our stereos, it ends up as an awkward misfire.
Like diet soda, the taste is there, but there isn’t anything else to gain from it.
Dylan Corbeill
