Sugar Ray — about as real as a Southern Californian blonde By NADIRA HIRA EDITORIAL STAFF Listening to Sugar Ray’s new self-titled album, it isn’t hard to imagine how or why any reviewer could pass it up. Sugar Ray’s boy-band “good looks” and smooth marketability of O-Town, combined with their bleached-blonde empty rock of American Hi-Fi and 3 Doors Down, makes this band one that will remain on TRL and the Billboard charts for some time. And that’s to say nothing of SoCal surfer-boy Mark McGrath’s lead vocals, which mimic the smooth stylings of a lawnmower, and lyrics that most third-graders would consider beneath them — “I met a girl, she had another / But I didn’t know / The music was hella bangin on the stereo / Latte later, she said yes / Grabbed me by the hand, much respect.” What? And, for the generous music fan thinking the chorus can’t be any worse than that — “She was your woman, but she was my girl / That would make her ours.” Enough said. If the band took itself seriously, this laundry list
The Stanford Weekly
might matter. But who writes lyrics like these and means for listeners to take them to heart? In making the video for “When It’s Over,” the first single off this album and arguably its most heartfelt song, the band still opts for tongue-in-cheek humor. As McGrath and company try to settle on a concept, the video takes the band on a hilarious run through everything from 1980s androgyny and voguing, to a strip club, a quick visit with Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, to finally — surprise — the motorcycles and beaches they finally identify as their look. Despite what their 15-year-old fans might think, no one can accuse the boys of Sugar Ray of having delusions of grandeur about the depth of their music. This inherent goofiness makes this album easy to listen to and fun to sing. The songs recall conversations you thought were meaningful until you decided to quit skipping third and fourth period and experiences that would have mattered if you were 30 and cared. That leaves you old enough to
laugh at the angst of songs like “Sorry Now” and its shouted lyrics “Why can’t you call and say you miss me? / The time we waste just becomes history / Who’s sorry now?” and too young to appreciate a time when those words aren’t just the overblown rhetoric of adolescence. It’s a sweet deal, and one that McGrath’s gravelchoked voice sells easily. No real singer could sing these songs with a straight face, but McGrath’s jokester style and lack of what might be called any real talent make him easy to relate to and like. Never mind that his undeniable hotness and bad-boy attitude probably sell more records and keep more women listening than anything else. This is not an album for pure rock fans, but if you are driving with the top down and the music up and you are at peace with the Californian inside you, it is the perfect set of silly summer songs. You will chuckle at some of the lyrics, belt out every chorus and, when it’s over, be happy enough to let it play again. ***
Thursday, July 12, 2001