Wheatus' Brendan B. Brown may have a whiny voice and sing comical, throwaway songs about mean people, but he's not stupid. Far from it.
He knows better than most the three key ingredients to a great pop song: a killer hook, an all-conquering chorus and a sentiment the listener can relate to. And he's acutely aware that even life's winners feel like pitiful, put-upon losers sometimes. Which is why shouting along to 2001's ubiquitous slacker anthem 'Teenage Dirtbag' - where the class geek pulls the prom queen - felt so good.
A lot has happened in the life of the Long Island loser since then, and not all of it good. In the time it takes to tour the world and sell a shed load of albums, friends have fallen by the wayside, he split-up with his fiancée and his Grandmother was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. Not surprisingly then, the sentiments of Wheatus' second album are darker than the first. Loss, loneliness, infidelity and rage consume every track.
That said, 'Hand Over Your Loved Ones' is Wheatus not Radiohead. For Brown, catharsis comes not from angst ridden wailing, but via unassailable power pop with stingingly venomous punch lines. The more disillusioned and bitter he is, the funnier the putdowns. For the most part, 'Hand Over Your Loved Ones' is hysterical.
His ex-fiancée probably wouldn't think so though, since she's the main topic of the album's camped-up Starship / Weezer / AC/DC bitching. Having established with fist in the air sing-along 'Anyway' that she was indeed the love of his life, he proceeds to tear her to shreds. For the inanely sunny 'Freak On', she's "acting like a hooker", while 'Lemonade''s bouffant '80s rock alludes to the reason behind their split. Calmly he requests "just tell me you didn't get laid in our bedroom, just tell me if his dick is bigger than mine," before the ridiculously overblown soft rock chorus kicks in.
'Fair Weather Friend' and 'Randall' make similarly short, and catchy work of people who want to know Brown now he's famous. Meanwhile, he manages to fit in a couple of snidey sideswipes at his former nemesis and persecutor, the school jock, with 'The Song That I Wrote When You Dissed Me' - another irrepressible bout of retribution that stoops to fantastically childish, but satisfying, playground insults.
Sooner rather than later he's bound to get sick of being a dork, jerk and weirdo, and sounding like a teen movie soundtrack. But for now, no one does it better.
