It's funny, I can't help misreading the title of this album. That's probably due to seldom having read the word "astray" without its usual suffix of "led." Maybe "astray" just isn't a word that stands well on its own. No matter how many times I glance at it, I wind up reading it like ash-tray without the "h." Yes, that's right. Ass-tray. Which, in turn, makes me think of bed-pans. Or more specifically, of an old incontinent mummy-looking character at a nursing home doing it into a bed-pan. Foul. Granted, that's just my dumb penchant for pointless word association at work, but what could be any further from the silly X-Games imagery this album wants so desperately to suggest? Moving on...

A super-abridged review to Samiam's Astray might go something like "Chn-chn-chn-chn-raaahhhh!" And I might just have left it at that, had I not gotten so stumped on the written rendering of drum fills and crash cymbals (pssh?). If nothing else, I can now proudly say I know how to spell onomatopoeia. Thank you, Samiam.

I want to stop right here. Badly. But I don't want to give the impression that I'm this awfully slipshod, lazy guy. (Plus, there's a word minimum on these things.) The point is, though, that I did truly suffer for this review. Like, one distant day when Pitchfork issues service medals to its writers, I expect to be donning a big, shiny-ass one for Valor in the Face of Grave Suckitude. Do give me some credit though. I realize that one person's sonic endurance trial is another's... uh, I don't know. Bad taste? Okay. I'll do my best to keep the objectivity button in the "on" position. Click. Wink, wink.

You may enjoy the hell out of this album, after all. Maybe I can help you figure out your chances. You a big fan of palm-muted guitar? Oh yeah? Swell, cause there's enough of that in these verses to make Slayer twitch with envy or Megadeth blush like girls in a Jane Austen novel. Chn-chn-chn-chn. Dope, eh? Perhaps, you reserve a luxury suite in your heart for generic, flatly screamed vocals about (surprise!) love and break-ups? Well, hell, that's two for two-- we're in business my friend! And did you always love Bryan Adams' poignant, longing lyrics but wished he might have been a little more obvious and trite? Put down your heavy bags and rest those legs. You have found a home.

Since I'm bound to specifically comment on the songs at some point, let's get it over with. Astray actually started out fairly well. The first 30 seconds of the opening track, "Sunshine," seemed to hint at pleasant, up-tempo, if standard emo-fare. But then the distortion hit and the drummer banged out a ham-fisted build-up-to-the-rockin'-chorus sort of fill. Suddenly, a fucking skateboard flew out of my speaker and clocked me in the face. When I looked up and saw the troupe of BMX guys doing handstands on their handlebars, figure-8'ing around and around my room, I knew I'd fallen into ESPN2 hell.

The first 10 seconds of "Wisconsin," the second song, are also deceivingly alright (these are exact numbers by the way). Nicely dissonant chords and solid drumming made me think I was in for something in the same vein as Superchunk's "Precision Auto." Well, not exactly. Nevertheless, this track is probably the album's strongest.

Track three: "We're travelling destinationless with an open ticket for a one way trip free of any expectations."

Track four, "Mud Hill" is, inexplicably, the song that Hopeless Records (I'll leave that one alone) seems to want to push as the album's star single. It's nowhere near the best song on the album, although, really, after you get past the first two tracks, it's a pretty tight race for the bronze. Come to think of it, this album is sort of like the Special Olympics of Rock. Everyone's a winner, but only to Mom and Dad.

I can't go on, so just trust me. Aside from infrequent flashes of nice guitar work (and it's like bird-watching to find them) that lay buried way too deep in power-fuzz, there isn't much here to work with. Samiam have taken a pretty harsh fall. Other bands of this ilk, some of which get no respect, like, for example, Knapsack (with whom Samiam has shared a member in the past) pull of this exact same routine in a much more impressive fashion. And Superchunk, who likewise have a limited stylistic range, manage to write rockin', super-kinetic, and fun sing-along songs, accomplishing with chaotic flair what this Samiam album can so obviously not. But as a soundtrack to that cable-access extreme sports show you've been planning, or as background music while you Do the Dew, this shit rocks!

-Camilo Arturo Leslie