Liverpool Sound and Vision Rating * * *

Virtually all artists bring elements of themselves to their chosen creative pursuit. The sense of the autobiographical is interwoven with in all manner of artistic endeavours, from the artist sentimentally putting in their favourite flower into a scene where there was none to be seen, to the poet adding colour into a dull passage of time and the musician bringing, in some cases the very worst of their dystopian thoughts and nightmarish experiences to the public gaze and letting a guitar mourn the passing of a single note. It worked for bands such as Pink Floyd and solo performers such as Peter Gabriel so why not Fall Out Boy?

With the band’s new album, American Beauty/American Psycho, the overwhelming truth that arguably comes pouring out in Andy Hurley’s, Joe Trohman’s, Patrick Vaughn Stump’s and Pete Wentz’s music is like giving confessional to a hundred desperate voices all at the same time with no sign of a tea break or a nun to put up the closed sign on the church door.

There is no doubting the absolute sincerity in which the foursome have recorded the album with, what’s missing, bizarrely in an album that seems to look discreetly at all areas of the inner workings of the band dynamic and the effects of a tortured period of time, is the gnawing, empty feeling of passionless existence. Not for life, but in the cold heart of the album. Every now and then a small measure, a sample of controlled energy, seems to emerge, poke its head above the trench wall and decide that it’s lonely out there with no warmth or shelter to make it feel content and soon climbs back in. It is the groundhog taking off its earphones every so often and making a gestured approach to rock music.

Lyrically it’s hard to fault American Beauty/American Psycho, as there are certainly many levels of interest within the psychological make-up, but it’s like having a great starter, filled with promise and mouth watering expectant delicacy, only to find that the rest of the meal has been cancelled due to the chef being taking ill and then being presented with a bill in which they have charged you £250 pounds for a glass of water.

It is a shame nonetheless, as Fall Out Boy were one of the more interesting attractions of the genre but time, and more notably experience, has perhaps taken a wallop too many.

In an album with little to celebrate, tracks such as Uma Thurman, Immortals and the very good Twin Skeleton’s (Hotel in NYC) are what saves the album from being completely dismissed as the final salute to a period of time which had ridden so wonderfully high and fallen so low.

The listener can only hope that the band will emerge in better condition, if only to bring back some former glory, but it’s going to take time.

Ian D. Hall