Their voices wary of silence, faces too pretty for anonymity, the Backstreet Boys have emerged from the shadows to craft another boring record. Shame on them.
Ah, Backstreet. The paper of our sisters' walls, essence of our middle high dances. Five guys forever singing the soundtrack to our nostalgia. They taught a generation how to sit on stools, how to frost their hair, and that sometimes, most of the time, solo careers fail miserably. (But turn that frown upside-down, because you'll always have your bros.)
In their prime, they packed arenas in countries George Bush has never heard of, sold more discs than Frisbee, and connected the country with their tracks to an extent Union Pacific Railroad would envy. And all the while, they donned atrocious goatees--a feat of laudable proportions. They wanted it that way and, Goddamnit, we did too.
The group toured the world as a synchronized dancing machine, a dynamo only as strong as each of its parts. Nick was always the ladies man, the show-off, tapping his feet and tipping his hat as if to say, “I wish I was Justin Timberlake, too.” Brian and A.J. acted as perfect foils, one a God-fearing momma's boy, the other a badass, tattooed momma's boy.
Kevin exuded maturity, possessing a wealth of wise anecdotes (I can only assume) and an affinity for trench coats and skullcaps. A mentor, perhaps, disguised as a magician. And, last and least, good ol' Howie, the fifth-wheel, no one's favorite, the redheaded stepchild, whatever--always the stumper in climactic rounds of “Name that Backstreet Boy.” Yes, the Backstreet Boys existed as a synchronized dancing machine, poised to boogie into history.
But boogie they will not. Despite a fan base that has grown tired of angelic harmonies and the slow, but sure, devastation of the boy-band as a genre, they continue fight for their share of an imaginary market.
So now, to quote a phrase that I first heard an unfathomable 12 years ago, Backstreet's back. Though maimed of one member (Kevin again reveals his wisdom), the group has returned.
With last week's release, “This Is Us,” they toss another bucket of chum into the sea of mediocrity, hoping for some bites. Bottom-feeders, take notice. Backstreet has mastered the art of creating astonishingly average pop music. Neither good nor bad, the disc consists of less-than-catchy love ballads and watered-down Lady Gaga jams that get your head bobbing but inspire little else.
To the ardent fan, the album's title may prove less ironic than depressing; a branded reminder of just how far the group has fallen. That was us then--filthily famous, masters of a brilliant spectacle, conjurers of preteen ecstasy. “This Is Us” now. Boring.
Here's to the Boys spending more time with their families--for our sakes.
