Bad Religion
No Substance

THE REVIEW

Even the best make mistakes. After all, they are still human beings. The first was a youthful mistake, Anno Domini 1983, when they repudiated "Into The Unknown," which instead had (and still has) good arrows in its quiver. The second is a fresh mistake by Brett. Mr. Epitaph has, in fact, purchased the distribution and sales rights of "Stranger Than Fiction," "The Gray Race," and "The New America" to enrich the belly of his independent major, snubbing the crown jewel of the Sony/Dragnet period, "No Substance," certain it wouldn't break into the hearts and wallets of the kids, lobotomized by the flashy verve of Escape The Fate.

"Slow. Boring. Not punk. Commercial." From the gospel according to the youngsters. It's impossible to make them understand that the (sublime) three-chord tricks of "Against The Grain" are much more appealing to the mainstream. And, anyway, any hypothesis of gentrification is definitively dispelled by the scorching rock 'n' roll of the opening, that "Hear It" suspended between the New Bomb Turks and the West Coast, dominated by the osmotic virtuosity of Baker and Bentley, in a continuous and throbbing interplay of riffs. But it’s just a moment. Suddenly, the bass punctuates a dark and subdued atmosphere, ready to explode into the wall of guitars of "Shades Of Truth": it is a harmonious wall, however, embracing and sunny. Rich with nuances. Delicate and powerful. You can feel the air, the melancholy of "Two Babies In The Dark," the experimentalism of "Generator." A strange experimentalism, without Brett. But the pause is already over. Immediately the drums take off briskly, exploring the power-pop shores of "All Fantastic Images."

That's how "No Substance" is. Zero benchmarks. Awkward, made of shards. Schizophrenic and difficult. To play and listen to. The album shouts the uncontainable desire of Bad Religion to try something new, to be elusive. The desire to break away from a preconception, from the packaging of a product, from hearsay (emblematic, in this sense, is "The State Of The End Of The Millennium Address"). You can feel strongly the melancholy for the loss of the friend, the rival, the songwriting partner Brett Gurewitz and the splendid challenge with Dr. Graffin (the lyrics, though excellent, miss that instinctive and disenchanted approach typical of the ex-guitarist).

"No Substance" is the splendid mirror of all this. The sadness is clearly evident in the core theme of the album: incommunicability, the inability to relate to the world and things, the illusion of finding substance beyond form. A Moravian boredom sung by an inspired Greg Graffin in the title track, whose simple hard rock rhythm is a launching pad for the baroque (but never empty) virtuosity of Brian Baker and Greg Hetson. An energetic polyphony, radiant. A great pop sweetened and made even more inimitable by the intertwining of double voices, the constant pursuit of the oozin' aahs, the trademark of the Los Angeles quintet.

It's really difficult to find a slow point, an underwhelming episode: the epic "The Voracious March Of Godliness" and "Sowing The Seeds Of Utopia" (a grim story of hypocrisies and historical recurrences) are another two small masterpieces that, for the perpetual guitar playing, the introspective dimension of the lyrics, the sudden changes in rhythm register and the vocal lines (not to mention Graffin's vocal timbre, really similar to Mould's) certainly wouldn’t struggle to find a place in the rock milestone that is Warehouse: Songs And Stories.

In fact, No Substance is the "Warehouse" of Bad Religion. A mature album, aware, but also reckless, risky in breaking the mold, in whispering its very personal pop melodies. In outlining an alternative rock free from mannerisms, vibrant with emotions, that does not disdain incursions into their recent hardcore past ("The Biggest Killer In American History," "The Hippy Killers," "At The Mercy Of Imbeciles," "Raise Your Voice!"). But these echoes are composed, almost polite in their vehemence, controlled explosions to which Bad Religion have accustomed us since "Fertile Crescent": some chosen ones, it is known, have the innate quality of raising their voice without shouting.

It is in the reserved sweetness of its mid-tempo tracks, however, that the album plays its winning hand.

"The Same Person," the very "No Substance," "Victims Of The Revolution" and "Strange Denial" are the highest expression of the "Bad Religion sound" inaugurated with "Generator" and "Recipe For Hate," which finds its brightest gem in "In So Many Ways," a serene and sad elegy, in which the verses now echo no longer desperate but stoically resigned, of "Suffer."