"Joy!" begins with the line "Careful what you're wishing for/ You just might get your heart's desire." Alright, who the fuck was wishing for overproduced, insipid, supposedly glam but really quite bored and ugly looking, sterilized, Queen- worshipping, horribly named for the sake of instant press, decades too late, hype- filled British bands? Gay Dad are the Stay- Puft Marshmallow Man of rock! Run!!

Frontman Cliff Jones used to write for such esteemed, poignant music journals as The Face and Mojo before deciding to get in the game himself with Gay Dad. (Yes, The Face actually reviews music. It's right there behind the glossy, pedophilic fasion spread.) We can thank Cliff for such brilliant observations like "Oasis: The Sex Beatles." Is it any wonder Mojo caters to elderly out- of- touch rock fans who cling to their King Crimson and Blind Faith t-shirts for vicarious nostalgia? It's a magazine that voted the new Scritti Politti as one of the best records of '99. So it's amazing Cliff Jones found the courage to completely discredit everything he has ever written in criticism by releasing one of the most derivative, yet uniquely horrible albums of recent history. But after several complete listens through Leisure Noise, the best Jones has to offer us is, "Come on/ Let's get it on!/ Put your platforms on!" It makes one yearn for the soulful vigor of the New Radicals. (Don't worry, I vow to not resurface in ten years fronting a hair-metal revival band called Erotic Baby.)

The "best" moments, which amount to approximately 2:14, bring to mind the vast, geometrical, cool, echoing spaces of postmodern German airports. But hey, so do German airports. And Radiohead. However, the vast majority of this album is as invogorating as K-Mart and tupperware while sounding faintly like a hybrid of the Black Crowes and Jim Brickman. I mean, finding pleasure in the excitingly titled Leisure Noise is like trying to masturbate to Wallpaper* magazine. Filled with Bruce Hornsby- esque lines such as "Kiss me like the ocean breeze/ Kiss me like you still remember," Cliff Jones would be better replaced with a wax figurine implanted with a random lyric generator from a database of Mike and the Mechanics, Kajagoogoo, Mr. Mister, Whitesnake, and Richard Marx. At least Whitesnake didn't have layers of synth. But hey, if you found the last Manic Street Preachers record to be entirely too caustic and hardcore (any babies or newborn puppies out there?), inject Gay Dad into the fatty tissue of your buttocks like an antibiotic.

-Brent DiCrescenzo