Three point nine. What the hell does three point nine mean? Unless you've been a regular Pitchfork reader, that's the question you're probably asking yourself right now. Obviously, the connotation of a 3.9 on a scale from 1 to 10 can't be good, but that's about as lucid as our numbering system gets for our less regular readers. And to tell you the truth, it ain't a whole lot clearer to us, kids. Until now, that is. For I have in my possession a list, promulgated by the highest powers in the land, defining each and every number on the Pitchfork International Scale of Music Reviews and friends, 3.9 means, quite literally, "...Below average. It maybe has a couple of redeeming qualities (e.g. good drummer, good singer, good keyboard effects, etc), but overall it's not very good, even for fans of that band or genre."

Now, this definition blankets the entire 3.0 to 3.9 range, raising the apparent question, what is the difference between 3.0 and 3.9? Well, it's .9, of course-- .9 of good drumming, singing or keyboarding, .9 of additional redeemable value to whatever listener would shun a record rated 3.0, but think twice about the same album granted a 3.9. There's a science here, folks, and if you don't understand it, there's nothing more I can do to help you. Except, of course, by illuminating for you today the perfect example of a 3.9 album, Frenzal Rhomb's A Man's Not a Camel.

When I was about 11 or 12 years old, my mind and ears heretofore safely tucked away in the pleasant, suburban womb of my baby boomer parents' classic rock inklings, I first heard the likes of the Clash and the Sex Pistols. I'm convinced to this day that those seminal punk bands forever changed my life. Soon after, I found I had a sense of displacement, at once created and assuaged by punk rock. I felt infinite worlds away from my friends grabbing for the next Michael Jackson release and wondered if they ever truly understood anything. Sandinista, man! They would never know. And I would be held apart by the music in which I felt so much comfort.

In those bygone days, I daydreamed of a time when punk rock would emerge popular, when everyone would finally comprehend the great power, energy, and most importantly, the truth of that music. And by God, as my hope was slowly eroding over the course of the all too long 1980s, others did hear the call. By the time I reached true cognitive power sometime in high school, I could hear the rumblings of my old favorites in the sounds of Husker Du, the Replacements and the Pixies. By the time the bomb dropped in Seattle, the unimaginable was fully realized.

Of course, my mom always warned me to be careful what I wished for, and just t-minus a few years from musical bliss, I now understand why. Punk has indeed become popular and, for its next performance, it's become pop music. Bands like Blink 182 and Frenzal Rhomb (you were starting to wonder when I was going to get them, didn't you? As I'm sure you can already tell, we get paid by the word here at Pitchfork.) play the same three chord progressions with the same distorted guitars as Mick Jones, et al, but they do so without the truth- bearing sneer that gave all the great punks their mojo.

Like the Old 97's morphed their alt-country sound into a bland pop sound, Frenzal Rhomb's A Man's Not a Camel doesn't borrow from punk so much as it exploits it in the footsteps of the Offspring. No doubt, "Let's Drink a Beer" will regale many a frat house taproom and high school woods kegger this season, but if you're this far into this review, you'll be the one slowly sipping your beer and feeling oh so aloof. See, while the simplicity of punk remains here, the banality of songs like "Never Had So Much Fun," "You Are Not My Friend," and "I Don't Need Your Loving," along with the aforementioned Bud jingle, exposes the true intentions of this album.

There's nothing to chew on here, nothing to make you think, nothing to make you step out of your skin and open your mind. Punk's jarring snarl is nothing without purpose, a redeeming quality of which there is little here. In short, we only need one Green Day. Even shorter: 3.9.

-Neil Lieberman