Girls Against Boys frontman Scott McCloud's half-whispered, cigarette burnt vocals on this, his telling solo debut, channel the scuzzy street-level vibe of that seminal Touch & Go band, leavened by the sagacious musings of an unblushing, unpretentious gutter poet. For this fan, these wizened, largely acoustic ditties frequently spark thoughts along the lines of "Gee, these sure would make some great GVSB songs."
Freed from the otherwise flawless GVSB template, Paramount Styles gives McCloud the well-deserved chance to showcase a rather weighty lyrical solemnity sometimes obscured by the chest beating and bluster of his raucous noise rock dealings. Throughout Failure American Style, McCloud comfortably adopts the tone of a bedraggled elder statesmanship akin to fellow New York resident Lou Reed. As such, the specter of urban classics like "Walk On The Wild Side" and "Coney Island Baby" are spiritually evoked and unconsciously emulated more often than not. Like the Rock 'N' Roll Animal, he's roamed these mean streets long enough to call out the fakes and spot the hustlers that still remain in the post-Giuliani period.
Considering the severity of the strangely beautiful material, McCloud is frighteningly believable yet simultaneously captivating. His perceived machismo obviously intact, McCloud shares his gripes and dispenses his wisdom as if from a hastily patched-up barstool in a New York City dive bar that disregards the long-standing smoking ban. With smirking references to a "booty call Valentine", "Drunx, Whores & MZK People" warns of and moans about those leeches that always want a piece of even a minor celebrity who, in turn, feeds off their neediness. Buoyed by the sweet backup pipes of Scottish singer Angela McClusky, McCloud sneers at those who aspire to fame on the virile and occasionally vitriolic "Come To New York," arguably this album’s finest tune. Still, Failure American Style feels phenomenally personal and gutsy in its seething honesty and less than cautious masculine sensitivity. These eleven songs are not the boastful tales of rockstar success and excess, but instead the twilight unburdening of coagulating frustrations driven by heartache, disappointment and loss that eat away at a man bit-by-bit, driving him to vice and compounding bad decisions. Over a thumping 4/4 beat, McCloud tempers his bubbling rage for "Race You Til Tomorrow", vacillating between reassuring words and despondent cynicism over a maddening relationship apparently worth salvaging.
Perhaps even more startling than the soul bearing is the absence of the dissonant wall of noise fans have come to expect from McCloud musically. Most of these songs revolve around his jagged acoustic guitar strums, some of which are downright pleasant. “Hollywood Tales 2” is eerily spartan in its simplicity, while the sonically fuller though still relatively unadorned “AllEyesAreOnYouNowMyPet”—this record’s most single-worthy cut—sort of reminds me of Bob Mould’s recent album. Snarling like a wounded beast, Paramount Styles doesn't necessarily intend to be disagreeable, nor does it care if anyone takes offense. McCloud's hurt may be on display on Failure American Style but rest assured that the album's primary purpose is not to entertain—which it thoroughly does—but rather to lash out.
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