If the world’s meek heirs are anything like Owl City auteur Adam Young, I’ll spend my final hours with Bret Michaels. Even an egomaniacal brain-dead manwhore is preferable to geeky, infantile musings fey enough to make Glee’s Kurt Hummel seem butch. He may be cuddly as a Care Bear, but if he were a doll you’d be changing his diapers every five minutes. Young’s soggy puerile electro-pop sentimentality crosses the line from mewling sap into emotionally retarded and goes for miles. Usually when some social misfit tries dancing with lightning bugs people suggest autism, not artistry. It’s not just his backbone that’s paper thin (as he sings), so is the music. His percolating indietronica is so anemic new agers Kitaro sound like King Crimson by comparison. For Young, love is romantic surrender involving dewey eyes, kissing stars, fruity landslides and diced-up rainbows coming off like chick lit for prepubescent girls.
Sun., April 25, 6:30pm.
With Lights + Paper Route.
421 N. Seventh St.
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