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Releasing three albums across three successive years makes Hurley their third LP in little more than a 24-month period. So the work ethic is there; the capability, as demonstrated by albums one through seven, is there; and the unique balance of adorkable affability and genuine virtuosity, as is a given with Weezer, is there. But does eighth album Hurley keep the momentum going, or does it inadvertently serve as an advert for those aforementioned rest periods?
Hurley, so named for the gigantic face of Jorge Garcia grinning out from the cover artwork, is already off to a bad start via its Lost association. Granted, it’s merely a visual tool, but it’s difficult not to spit undiluted venom at anything related to that shitshower of a finale. Luckily, the content bears no relation, though there’s a worrying likelihood that fans might hold back some venom for the music itself.
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But Weezer on a bad day nonetheless trumps most other bands’ career pinnacles, and there’s still plenty on Hurley to get excited about – the precise metal leanings of Ruling Me or the effortless, understated charm pouring out of Time Flies. It’s just that for a band of this standing, one would expect an entire album of such moments, rather than sporadically dotted throughout.
If there’s one thing last year’s fan-splitting album Raditude taught us, it’s to not judge Weezer too quickly. Dismissed fairly speedily as a gimmick-laden, cumbersome, aural mid-life crisis, and yet, twelve months on, it’s an agreeable, highly-listenable (if perhaps irony-heavy) Weezer near-classic. So check back next September where we’ll no doubt have declared Hurley the album of the decade. Until then, grit your teeth and try your damndest to find its good side – it is in there somewhere.
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