Like mad scientists distilling the worst elements of Owl City, the Secret Handshake and Chris Carrabba into a neurotoxin to wreak their vengeance on the world, Breathe Electric are the musical equivalent of Jim Jones’ Koolaid without the merciful relief. Blandly derivative overwrought saccharine, if it doesn’t kill brain cells, it surely causes cancer. Their burbling indie-tronic melodies simper like a wounded animal, as vocoder-addicted auteur Grant Harris whimpers. With misanthropy this ingrained, Harris could benefit from Kurt Cobain’s home marksmanship course. Otherwise buy this guy some big boy pants, and pull the thumb from his mouth. Not that he lacks self-awareness, just shame, acknowledging on his track “The Average” a willingness to “continue writing all these shitty lame love songs that I hate. It’s becoming real clear that I have no talent.” As they say in AA, admitting you have a problem is the first step.
Tues., April 20, 6pm. $8. With You, Me, and Everyone We Know, We Are In the Crowd, Stay + More Like the Movies. The Fire, 412 W. Girard Ave. 267.671.9298. iourecords.com/thefire/
A$AP Ferg is the Mob’s man of honor