A Modern Rock chart hit by an Australian band. I should probably have known how this would end…

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Doug Robertson: Wow, I thought the clocks went forward this weekend, yet listening to this it seems clear that they actually went back twenty five years. Resetting all my clocks is going to be a lot more of a bugger than I thought.
[3]

Katherine St Asaph: At last, radio accommodates those who thought Daughtry didn’t have enough truck driver’s gear changes.
[3]

Al Shipley: Their previous hit “Odd One” had a strangely bewitching sense of stillness and subtlety that made it stand out from other alt-rock radio power ballads. But given the total MOR banality of the more popular follow-up, I guess that was a fluke.
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Martin Skidmore: Reasonably skilled but rather limp post-grunge, like a watered-down and indeed wet Nirvana.
[3]

Jonathan Bogart: It’s one thing to play to the Christian audience with broad, soaring gestures and vaguely seeking lyrics. But when you pretend that’s not what you’re doing, that’s what really gets to me. Shut up and let the kids sing along on their summer retreats.
[3]

Jonathan Bradley: There’s one tiny little moment in this clogged-up sewer of a song in which the micro-compressed cardboard guitar grind transitions into a micro-compressed acoustic guitar interlude. As this blessed signpost of the song being two-thirds finished passes, singer Shimon Moore’s sub-Nickelback moan twists too far and the unmistakable hiccuping quiver of Auto Tune having to work too hard makes a transient appearance on the track. Oh, it’s beautiful: a little glitch in the Matrix proving that there’s a real world out there with industry men and studio machines just beyond the tune’s sheen of heartfelt Stepford Blokery. Because the alternative is far more horrific; it’s terrifying to imagine that a real person actually believed this machine translation of human emotion might communicate insight into spiritual renewal or a personal crisis in confidence. Instead, the truth is revealed: This is drive time rock radio fodder built to accompany a boot stamping on the brakes in gridlocked rush hour traffic forever.
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Ian Mathers: It’s probably unfair to call this everything wrong with rock music in 2011 (god knows I’ve loved some polished-to-death, slick bullshit in my day, and will again), but a large part of me wants to punch anyone who finds this anodyne bullshit actually uplifting. Congratulations, Sick Puppies (ugh), I now hate the idea of people pulling themselves together and fixing their lives.
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