Aurally, this is uneventful, underwhelming, and not all that unique. Although I Hate Myself tumultuously teeter-totter at times, they ultimately tread a fine line between overwrought emo emissions of sound and bratty propulsions of unoriginal indie-rock redundancy. The vocalist excruciatingly screams with all-out unrelenting rage as if his pecker’s been pierced with an old rusty icepick, but sometimes he fades into indechipherable choirboy harmonies that are almost angelic in nature… the guitars are quaint and pretty (meandering, soaring, and frolicking like huge fluffy clouds rolling through the statuesque solemnity of rugged snow-capped mountains)… the rhythm section is adequately appealing in the sense that my toes frenetically tapped along to the beat on occasion. I just don’t know… after listening to this, I got the distinct gut-level feeling that I’ve heard it all before… indeed, it’s interchangeable and indistinguishably replaceable with everything else in the emo-charged world of musical monotony. I want music to move me; to inspire me; to shake my senses silly; to create intense feelings of euphoria, soothe the inner child within me, or unleash the big bad beast in me. I have no need for music that numbs me with teary-eyed melancholy or causes me to desperately dwell in my very own self-made misery or makes me blearily contemplate the meaningless morbidity of life. Unfortunately, emo often does just that… it’s pouty hippy-church music for today’s disaffected sulking PC youth (nothin’ a swift kick in the ass and an eye-opening dose of harsh reality can’t cure though!). Yep, give ’em the boot, and then kick out the jams, motherfuckers!
–guest (I Hate Myself)