My listening experience with Four Hundred Years' The New Imperialism was shaped more by text than by music. I usually try not to read the official record label press releases Schreiber crams underneath the jewel case disc trays. But occasionally, you must to reference important information that could be essential to trashing their magnum opus with neatly gift-wrapped insults and ad hominum tirades. They also sometimes contain contact information, useful for calling label staff and dropping Pitchfork's name so you can get free CDs.

Anyway, I immediately blanched upon reading that the band built its fanbase by "tackling diverse subjects ranging from... the Reagan years to class disparity." Ranging from? That's like saying your musical tastes range from Ricky Martin to Enrique Iglesias. Incidentally, this is about the same as the vocal range of co-frontmen Daron and Dave, a couple of guys too cool for last names. But wait-- before you diagnose me with an anti-guttural screaming bias, keep in mind that I was weaned on a heavy diet of mid-'80s hardcore, and can appreciate the hoarse-cords technique as much as the next guy.

In a ritual shared by audiophiles worldwide, I glance through the liner notes. What's this? Recommended websites? How geek chic! A band after my own heart. And what's more, I'm directed to sites for the Industrial Workers of the World and Earth First, among others. How about that; I work for an environmental organization and my short-lived college band was called the Wobblies. I even flirted with activism in those days, having drunk a beer with Ward Churchill and marched with the FMLN. Sounds like a match made in heaven. Except maybe for that vegan site. Perhaps I was unfair to be suspicious based on a few sentences from a press release. After all, it's common knowledge that everyone in music journalism is a piece of human toilet tissue.

More probing produces the icing on the cake: A sensitive, emotional quote from cult author Jeanette Winterson's The Passion, which sits on my bookshelf a mere arm's length away, prefaces one of the songs. My worries evaporate. And then I remember what these guys sound like.

Upon repeated listens, the opener emerges as one of the stronger song constructions on the album. It's got cool tumbling drum work and a outro that sounds like Less Than Jake's old backup howler doing his best Fugazi impersonation. The tempo shake-ups are nice, and the song has a urgent structure that comes across really effectively. It suffers only from its own subject matter, which deals with-- get ready for this shocker-- an artist selling out. Yeah, and I think country music has a song about a pickup truck.

The final song, not including the shoddy bonus track, is some classic, bouncy D.C.-style hardcore. We even get a couple measures of speak-singing instead of the usual scream-singing. It finally merges into an average instrumental closer that's soothing without being narcotic. Aside from lowering my blood pressure, it's really otherwise unremarkable.

The rest of the disc-- if one were to plot the Cartesian coordinates x=tracks, y=quality-- resembles an inverted bell curve. The New Imperialism's saving grace is that it's a mere eight tracks long, which makes for a brief curve.

Clumsy attempts at melody display about the same competence as a 14-year old virgin trying to undo his first bra strap in the dark. And after listening to their ballad, "They Weren't Hiding It at All," I was overjoyed when the yelling began anew. The lyrics, proud in their overt political trappings, are left. Nay radical! Nay nay! Revolutionary! NAY, ANARCHISTIC!!! (I'll pause here while Four Hundred Years fans grunt "Fuckyeah" and spray-paint a circled 'A' on the nearest wall.)

But what's this? Another ray of hope cuts through the fog of uninspiring, greyface guitar work and hokey, bald lyrics: text again intrudes as a half-remembered glimpse sends me scrambling for that now-coffeestained pressroom wrapping. I scan it quickly. Ah yes, there they are, to my relief, proudly set off with a single bullet at the head of the page-- the words that will assure me of a fitless, restful sleep this evening: "Their last Studio Recording!" Add another exclamation mark for me.

-John Dark