Review: Taproot


Widely seen as Taproot’s “sellout” album, “Welcome” seldom strays from the repetitive slow-fast, sway-jump Staindish moan and scream formula that seems to be molesting every last inch of cracking skin on the aging body that is popular, American radio rock.  “Do you rap and rock?  Do you whine about vague clichés like pain and love?  You do!!  Here’s a million dollars.  Before you leave, go ahead and stuff your integrity into that putrid, sticky trashcan next to the shitter.  Thanks.”

You’ve heard this music before.  Stephan Richards, who ironically looks in his press photo like he’s earnestly looking for a pole to smoke, blatantly rapes the corpses of Layne Staley and Jonathan Davis in an attempt to sound melodic (wait, John Davis isn’t dead).  And while I do agree with their bio, which claims Taproot’s music to flow in the same vein as Linkin (Logs) Park and Papa (insert clever nickname) Roach, I don’t see this comparison as a positive.  But then again, I’m not reaping the benefits awarded by those fans whose ignorant taste allow bands like Taproot to shovel their regurgitated, banal redundancies down the throats of the masses again and again and again and…

The promotional copy of “Welcome” that I received came covered in legal disclaimers prohibiting me from reproducing or sharing this album.  Fuck ’em.  Produce original music, and I’ll respect your artistic license.