Here's a clue to what [a]Chris Cornell[/a]'s debut solo effort sounds like. In October, the man known for a serious metal day job comes to Britain for two rare dates in London and Manchester. Both gig
This, don't forget, is the man who sang with Soundgarden, noisy grunge-rocker types of the Pearl Jam variety and second favourite band (after Nirvana) of dysfunctional teenage boys everywhere. Admittedly, it's hardly surprising Chris has left that behind him. He fronted Soundgarden for 12 long years and the kids can't mosh to blokes older than their dads, after all.
But that's where Chris' credibility grinds to an embarrassing halt. As solo projects go, 'Euphoria Morning' is as predictable and tedious as they come. He's followed the gutless, age-old route to prove how mature and grown up he is. Oh, and doesn't he have a lovely voice. You could never hear the words to any of his songs before. Isn't it nice?
This album is the rock equivalent of sorting out a respectable pension and, possibly, a nice little house with a garden. It's a self-indulgent, painful cop-out. At times, he sounds like Meat Loaf and Counting Crows. At others, he's better suited to groaning over a wine-bar piano in Ally McBeal, for God's sake.
Each track is interchangeable yet it's obvious Chris sweated over every last detail. His pain bleeds through every wearied, wailing note of 'Preaching The End Of The World' and every cheesy piano flourish of 'When I'm Down'. He drones on and on about all his longing and heartache, when it's obvious he's really thinking about a quiet early night.
It's fair to say Chris no longer rocks, then. Indeed, this album is so sensible, the only surprise is that it doesn't come with a ten-point marketing plan.
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