THE THORNS
The Thorns
(Aware/Columbia)
And now, let's utter that word that makes critics shudder—hell, it doesn't exactly bring a shiver of happiness to listeners, either: supergroup. The idea of musicians with strong followings and artistic legacies under their own names commingled for a new project is an old one, of course, and seemingly a sure sign of success; music companies often drool over the possibilities. The record for such things is spotty, however; for every Crosby, Stills & Nash or Texas Tornados there's a Blind Faith, or, worse, a Coverdale Page. (And let's face it, even CSN pretty much ran out of gas after a couple of albums.) Too often these kind of groupings seem more like gimmicks than actual collaborations, with ego battles, incompatible musical ideas and the crippling weight of audience and business expectations breaking the backs of the projects before they've barely gotten off the ground.

With that in mind, we have the Thorns, one of the first so-called supergroups of the 2000s. Then again, maybe "supergroup" is a bit of misnomer. All three of these singer/songwriters have had some commercial success. Rootsy rocker Pete Droge scored a minor hit with his first single, the infectious "If You Don't Love Me (I'll Kill Myself)," from his underrated debut Necktie Second. Matthew Sweet gained a high degree of critical respect and a solid fanbase due to power pop confections like Girlfriend and "Sick of Myself." After a decade of slogging through the trenches, Southern popster Shawn Mullins enjoyed a top ten hit a few years back with "Lullaby." But none of them are exactly superstars, which means the pressure isn't nearly as intense for the trio's self-titled debut to be a smash. Besides, this isn't some corporation-arranged summit; the three men just happened to meet and discover that they sing well together. The blend of these guys' various musics—all pretty much based on catchy melodies and straightforward songwriting—has the potential for greatness.

As is the case of most supergroups, though, the actual results of this amalgamation are mixed. One could argue that this isn't exactly a meeting of equals; Mullins may be the most commercially successful of the trio, but artistically he's not even in the same league as the other two. And as long as we're being honest, Sweet's past work towers over that of Droge and Mullins both; indeed, he's coming off In Reverse, probably his crowning achievement. Plus all three musicians are used to calling the shots to the point where they rarely co-write and usually play the lion's share of instruments on their own releases; this isn't a combination immediately conducive to a smooth working environment. As a result of the tensions inherent in this particular conclave, the music performs a delicate balancing act, as artists with distinctive talents and strong egos attempt to collaborate without stepping on each other's toes. "Runaway Feeling," the opening track, is the perfect crystallization of the problem. Primarily sung (and presumably written, though most of the tracks are listed as collaborations) by Droge, it sports a simple melody, a rolling, midtempo cadence and lyrics that never get more complicated than "It's a runaway feelin'/Once you make up your mind." It also boasts lush, pretty harmonies; Mullins and Droge sound so similar it makes for instantly appealing layers, while Sweet's unique style floats poignantly over the top. Unfortunately, while the song is undeniably pleasant listening, it's not particularly memorable; it sounds tentative, like the trio was still getting to know one another. It's as if the musicians found an easy groove they could all work with and stayed there, hesitant to push the envelope, content to stay with easygoing melodies and the harmonies which were pretty much the group's raison d'etre in the first place. It's not a bad song, mind you, just…uneventful. Any of these three could've written and recorded it with minimal effort, so it's a bit puzzling that it took three of them, plus session musicians and producer Brendan O'Brien, to pull it off.

Other tracks suffer from the same malaise; Droge's "Think It Over," Sweet's "I Told You" and Mullins' "Such a Shame" (which begins with the provocative line "She sleeps alone without her clothes on" that seems to exist only so the band can be gently naughty without giving offense) never quite catch fire. Mullins' dramatic, strange "Dragonfly"—the only tune not about hearts being broken or love being made—is one of the few tracks with any ambition, but it somehow falls flat, as if Mullins was afraid of pushing his cohorts too far toward the top the song so obviously wants to go over. The triad also covers the Jayhawks' "Blue," a telling choice given the laidback nature of most of the music here. The group's take is faithful and solid, but won't make you forget the original. None of these cuts have much distinction beyond the names of the artists creating them. On the basis of these tunes, it's hard to justify the existence of this new millennium supergroup, when each artist could have been working on his music.

Fortunately, many of the tracks do work, at least within their own modest ambitions. Droge's "Long, Sweet Summer Night" is, well, sweet, adding simple romantic lyrics to a gentle melody that's irresistible. Also, his "I Set the World On Fire" adds just enough rock muscle to move the song from the "laidback" category to "headturning." Mullins, probably the least interesting artist on his own, rises to the example set by his bandmates with "No Blue Sky," a subtle, melancholy ballad that makes its ungainly metaphor of air pollution as lost love actually work; the sadly ironic tagline "The sun never looked so pretty going down" helps immeasurably. Unsurprisingly, though, the artist who contributes the most quality material is the one whose solo career has shown the most consistency: Matthew Sweet. His set-closer "Among the Living" works the mid-tempo groove established throughout the record to its best advantage, while he gives the guitar-scarred "Thorns" an angry, snarling edge that matches its sneering lyrics ("I don't have a plan/For calling you back at all"). "Now I Know" is a mostly a cappella close-harmony exercise that pays homage to the Beach Boys and makes the most of its practitioners' compatible voices. Finally, Sweet's "I Can't Remember," the smartly-chosen single, puts all the band's eggs—shimmering harmonies, a laidback rhythm and, most importantly, bright, melodic hooks—into one pan and comes up with a delicious omelet. This one track does more to fulfill the potential of this fusion of talents than nearly everything else on the album.

Like most of the ensembles that fit uncomfortably under the heading "supergroup," the Thorns are only intermittently successful. Too much of the album sounds like the musicians were unwilling to push each other for fear of bruising egos; there's no attempt at a sound unique to the artists' normal gigs. The songs don't come off as much different than they would have on solo records, so what's the big deal? There's enough good music on this record to make it worth hearing, but fans of the individual artists may have preferred new music from each, rather than a collaboration that seems more like a side trip than a true journey. Michael Toland [buy it]

For fans of: Crosby, Stills & Nash, the Jayhawks' Rainy Day Music, Jay Bennett and Edward Burch

Copyright © 2003 High Bias