Trouble Andrew's self-titled debut album holds nothing back, going so far as displaying its lead singer sporting a sideways baseball cap and gold chain on its cover. The amalgamation of repetitive pop-punk guitar riffs and insipid electronic melodies over pseudo-hip-hop-inspired lyrics delivered in a monotone drawl stands as the latest incarnation of douche-core. This serves less as a musical statement and more as a vehicle for the band's front man, ex-pro snowboarder Trevor Andrew.
Andrew's lyrics desperately attempt to define him as the next in a long line of gangsta"" tough guys, but the continuous self-aggrandizing reveals nothing more than an appropriated ideal of cool regurgitated to the point of absurdity. Lyrics declaring Andrew a pimp and asking the listener if they ""want to see his gun"" wouldn't be as embarrassingly simple and cliché if they didn't come from a Canadian.
Outside of snowboarding circles, Andrew enjoys a firm obscurity, and his attempt at edging his way out in front of a larger audience boils down to yelling, ""Hey, look at me, I'm cool!"" This image is inherently shallow, complicated by Andrew's attempts to deviate from simple boasting by commenting on a few socially conscious points.
The song ""Chase Money"" chastises women for conforming to the materialistic lifestyle with which Andrew is frantically trying to associate himself. Meanwhile, ""Young Boy"" ineffectively tries to encapsulate all of the world's woes - only to end up being a series of cautionary non sequiturs, as Andrew bafflingly laments of ""computers replacing the children.""
Despite the banality of Trouble Andrew and its obvious intent to garner celebrity for its namesake, at no point is it downright bad. When focusing solely on the music, this hybridization of punk rock, electronic and hip-hop - a mix that rarely meets with good results - is actually harmonious at times. Each song trudges indiscernibly into the next, making it hard to tell one from another, creating a consistency of sound that has an alarming effect. Although nothing about the music stands out as excellent, none of it is truly offensive.
The real trouble with Trouble Andrew is its overwhelming satisfaction with mediocrity. Behind Trevor Andrew's extreme-snowboarder-badass-homeboy lyrical faà §ade is a series of safe, derivative and wholly unconvincing songs. If it's hard to take this ex-athlete's initial foray into music seriously, it's because so much time was spent cultivating Andrew's image with almost no time allotted toward the creation of any kind of compelling musical experience.
There isn't a single authentic statement on this album, musical or otherwise, and it's the terrifyingly calculating way in which this was accomplished that causes the listener to recoil. This album is doomed to inhabit the party playlists of ""brosephs"" everywhere - these songs have value when getting the most people to bob their heads in unison while remaining as unobtrusive as possible is paramount.
