Jill Sobule’s [MySpace] latest, California Years is medicore at best, and gimmicky at worst. It’s an album that’s as forumalic as this week’s Danielle Steele publication. Her voice fluctuations are similar in every song and her voice sounds like some saccharine character from a Disney movie. Mix in some southern country twang and “wahhhs” from the guitar, and you’ve got yourself fifty-seven minutes of “meh”. The best song on the album is “Sweetheart,” until that riding off into the sunset guitar ruins it. And then there’s the token “band behind the vocalist” that puts out stereotypical drumbeats and super safe guitar solos. Yawn . Honestly, this album would have been ten times better if it were backed only by acoustic guitar – much more conducive to her girly girl voice.

And now I want to talk about her song, “Nothing to Prove.” It’s the song that turned me against the album.

Every so often an album will house a song that can change the way you listen to the rest of the album. It’s not necessarily the gel that keeps it all together, it’s more like a filter that you hear the album through. “Nothing to Prove’s” lyrics drive me absolutely mad. I have to post them.

I remember laying down
It was 1983
Under the tree while listening to London Calling or something like that
Twenty-three years later
I’m here at a meeting
Trying to impress someone at a dying record company
I got nothing to prove

Nothing to prove
Nothing to prove
Once I was as miserable as you
Nothing to prove
Nothing to prove
I got nothing to prove

Nothing to prove
Nothing to prove
Once I was as miserable as you
Nothing to prove
Nothing to prove
I got nothing to prove

The pretentiousness oozes. “Maybe I just judged her wrong, but I’m usually I’m right” – wow. And she hates clear skin. And she doesn’t like the girl who’s looking at her like she’s a word that people haven’t used since the sixties. And she’s just so clever with her “steel industry” lyric – how edgy! Touché! Though this song’s tone may be inadvertent, or satirical – there’s something in the way she sings it that carrys over, lyrically, in listening to the rest of the album.

The word on the street is that her fans donated to her so she’d make this gem of a listen. I know this because the last song on the album is her singing all of the names of those who donated. It’s lame and gimmicky. And it makes me want to take a shower. But clearly, Ms. Sobule has nothing to prove, with this umpteenth humdrum of an album.

In “Cherry Chapstick” measurement terms, I give this album 1/100th of a CC, or, an “Island in the Sun,” at best.

[mp3] Jill Sobule – “A Good Life”
[mp3] Jill Sobule – “San Francisco”

Last 5 posts by Holly L. Perry

• Make Love, Not War - The (Subjective) Bedroom Mixtape - January 18th, 2010
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• Noah and the Whale - The First Days of Spring Review - November 6th, 2009
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