Pat Monahan "Last of Seven" (Columbia) Sounds like: Something you'd have to be middle-aged and sipping Mike's Hard Lemonade to enjoy.
In his first departure from Train, Pat Monahan has constructed an album so excruciating it makes "Drops of Jupiter (Tell Me)" tolerable. There's a sense of smugness on the album when there really shouldn't be.
Sure, Train may have won a few Grammy awards and dominated the Adult Top 40 list, but these accolades don't change the fact that Pat Monahan's song-writing skills are comparable to that of a lovesick 17-year-old. While listening to "Last of Seven," one can't help envisioning Monahan rolling around on his bed, giggling and scribbling lyrics with a purple gel pen into a Mead composition notebook.
That said, it's considerably difficult to take Monahan, or his album, even remotely seriously. With promising track titles, such as "Pirate on the Run," "Ripple in the Water" and "Ooh My My," listeners would think that Monahan would have a few tricks up his sleeve. Sadly, Monahan's tricks are akin to Gob's from "Arrested Development," sans any humor.
It's clear Monahan is pleased with himself right now, and this can be seen in his self-indulgent lyrics and even more so in his awkwardly posed photos throughout the album's artwork. In recent years, he has remarried and had a kid. Sometimes these blessings have wonderful consequences upon a musical artist, such as in Beck's "Guero." With Monahan, however, the effects are contrived and monotonous, as he's all-too reminiscent of that self-proclaimed "cool" uncle who wears clothing decades too young for him and employs words such as "bro" and "props" to further assure his coolness.
Most wish the "cool" uncle would give up the act and embrace his immaturity through honest means, yet here with "Last of Seven," it's clear this isn't an act. Monahan's diluted vision offers nothing but a run through the motions of uninventive, preachy adult rock.
-DONNY T. SHELDON
