Disclaimer: Any use of the term "gay" in the following review is, in this context a derogatory term to denote a substandard listening experience and in no way reflects the author's views on homosexuality. The author will not go on record as stating that some of his best friends are gay, as he has, in fact no friends, gay or otherwise, but will begrudgingly admit to having a man-crush on Owen Wilson, George Clooney and that Tony Almeida guy from "24".
This is not a good album. Not a good album at all. Some would call it "gay" in fact. The album in question, is Yes, Virginia, the newest from The Dresden Dolls. Don't believe the hype. Everything that was great about their first two albums is unfortunately so diluted this time around that it almost sounds like the debut album from a lesser tribute band. I find it hard to believe that this is the same band that toured with Nine Inch Nails mere months ago. Gone is the edge, the wit, and just plain coolness that made songs like "Truce" and "Good Day" so good. Sure, they hinted at the direction none of us were hoping they'd go with on "Coin Operated Boy", but that was a fluke. An anomaly, no?
No. That's exactly the direction they headed in with Yes, Virginia. This is a band that used to be deserving of the groundswell of support that seemed to be building with each mention in an article or high-profile artist that discussed them in an interview, but it's like they heard the whispers and tried to make the jump to commercial success by immediately making the music more accessible without even a thought to what got people talking in the first place. I won't use the term "sellout", because who the hell knows what's going on in their mimey little heads. But when you call yourself "punk cabaret", for Christ sakes don't forget the punk. You can do it. It worked for Hedwig, so it can work for you. There's not one song on the album that's memorable excepting the fact that every song is irritating as all get out. The punk is gone and all the listener is left with is the cabaret.
So trust me, if that's all you're looking for, find the nearest homosexual dancing establishment. Wait for the drag karaoke night, put on some sequins and two-inch heels (no higher, you whores) and sing Bette Midler (or any other homosexually stereotyped artist) all night long until your voice gets so hoarse all the Long Island Iced Teas in the world won't fix it. Sure, you'll be hung-over like a dog, but at least you'll have had a good time.
