May 10, 1994: a day which will live in infamy. That was the release date of Sunny Day Real Estate's Diary, an event that (if I may be so bold to proclaim) marked the point at which the term "emo" stopped being associated with short-lived, uber-underground hardcore bands and began its transformation into a catch-all epithet for any music one felt like scapegoating as wimpy, insipid, whine-pop. This is not a criticism of SDRE's music, but rather of its cultural effects; Diary introduced "emo" into the vernacular of the independent music scene at large.

Apparently unaware of the deeper etymology of the term, indie rockers began applying the "emo" tag to any band which bore the vaguest resemblance to SDRE's dramatic sound. Some of the more popular ones to unluckily fall into this category rejected the label outright, and perhaps even subconsciously steered the development of their sound towards a more pop-oriented direction in an attempt to avoid being pigeonholed. But the label stuck, and quickly became associated with Sunny Day's newer sound, thereby completely divorcing emo's somewhat nobler origins from its current most-reviled-genre status.

There is no better example of the questionable career arc of these ex-emo pop bands than that of Six Going on Seven: start out with a rough-edged, resolutely indie sound borne from a handful of good influences, and end up playing slick, neutered power-pop desperate to whore itself out for a spot on the soundtrack to WB teen dramedies. The band's 1997 debut, Self-Made Mess, was all tense, rippling heart muscle, a potent blend of Jawbox and Karate brought to life by bassist Josh English's Guy Picciotto-esque screaming/crooning vocal style. On their follow-up album, 1999's Heartbreak's Got Backbeat, Six Going on Seven showed that they could tone down the angst and get melodic without sacrificing depth or personality. However, what seemed like a promising proof of concept at the time has turned into a harbinger of doom with the release of American't (or Won't), a clumsy, ingratiating album which will inevitably be held up as smug proof of emo's continuing artistic bankruptcy for years to come.

Such a metamorphosis doesn't have to go badly; the Get Up Kids and the Promise Ring were able to make unapologetically poppy albums that, for all their shrinkwrapped sheen, had their fair share of tasty hooks. All that American't (or Won't) conjures up are uncomfortable comparisons to whitewashed radio-hit bands. "Lately" and "Television Snow"? Matchbox 20. "Famous for It"? Fuel. I am not exaggerating and I am not kidding. In this new, shamelessly poppy musical environment, English no longer sounds like he's losing his religion along with his voice; now he's just a hip alternative to the deep-throated braying frontmen of modern rock (although his unique set of vocal mannerisms can be just as annoying).

But what's truly sad about American't (or Won't) isn't the angst-lite Matchbox 20 vibe-- those songs are actually the least offensive tracks on the album. "'As Is'" is the absolute goddamn nadir. It's Six Going on Seven's "Hey, Hey, We're the Monkees," all jaunty jangle, soft-shoe shuffle, and terrifying Mentos-commercial cheeriness. It's the sound of emo meeting twee. And it fucking sucks.

Actually, that might not even be the worst moment on this album. Another contender is "Finish Them Off," a jumble of promising ideas lifted from old Breeders and Weezer albums that, had Six Going On Seven bothered to further develop, would have been an interestingly off-kilter pop song. As it is, it's a woefully underdeveloped throwaway.

As with another severely disappointing album by a supposed sure thing (we won't name any names if it's okay with Jets to Brazil), American't improves somewhat in its last third, but that may just be because the first two-thirds are so awful that anything that doesn't immediately set my teeth on edge would be an improvement. This album is a disgrace to the word "emo," even as disgraced as emo is today. Which is in itself a disgrace. Disgrace upon disgrace upon disgrace. Tar and feather this sucker, ride it out of town on a rail, draw and quarter it, and damn it to one of those particularly nasty circles of hell where it has to eat its own limbs and torso and then vomit them back up again for all eternity.

-Nick Mirov