Incubus still have a DJ in their ranks. That automatically leads to a deduction of one mark out of a possible five. Not a good start.
Brandon Boyd and company have had six years to recover, regroup and learn from the very middle-of-the-road ‘If Not Now, When?’ which, rather than having fans and critics on the edge of their seats, saw them instead slumped semi-lifeless and waiting for it to end.
But, that said, Incubus have sold millions of records in their 25 years together so they must be doing something right. On the basis of ‘8’, though, it must be their marketing strategy rather than the songwriting that’s made that happen.
Things start reasonably well here. No Fun kicks off proceedings with a swift burst of energy and noise that wouldn’t look out of place on their earlier, heavily-rotated records and, while a little alt-rock-by-numbers, it shows some promise.
Then comes the lead single, Nimble Bastard, which, although not as instantly catchy as its predecessor, is more listenable than the dirges that Incubus’ contemporaries are shovelling out these days. It may have been a better idea to have these two tracks a little further apart on the record as any vigour is quickly used up. From here on, ‘8’ becomes a struggle to get on board with and long gone are the days when Incubus could be seen as free spirits in both their songwriting and taste for experimentation.
Although not a perfect record by any stretch, the songs that made up their breakthrough, ‘Make Yourself’, in 1999 did sound like a lot of thought had gone into them. The band were something of a breath of fresh air in the already saturated alt-rock and nu-metal scenes. But, instead of something new or radical, what we get on ‘8’ is an album full of tired stadium rock anthems with an almost total lack of inventiveness.
The trio of Glitterbomb, Undefeated and Loneliest are completely interchangeable AOR and, while the DJ scratches have thankfully been put to bed for the most part, the dated synths and bleeps still ring out. The sample of the old dial-up connection that introduces Love in A Time of Surveillance may be the band poking a little fun at themselves, but it comes across as a groan-worthy idea rather than a playful aside.
Putting the opening salvo to one side, only the minute-long oddity When I Became a Man urges you to start listening intently. Unfortunately, it’s too little, far too late to rescue ‘8’. A wasted chance at a fresh start.
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