(Eleven Thirty)
There’s a difference between passion and self-absorption. Both involve shouting, but, usually, only one deserves it. David Mead is self-absorbed.
His most recent record, Indiana, showed that he can improve with age. On this EP, recorded in 2002 and delayed due to a corporate merger, he continues to pump out more middle-of-the-road corporate pop; he’s one of the better contributors to this genre, but the operative word here would be "middle". While more notable than college freshmen favorites like Dave Matthews or Jack Johnson, Mead lacks the more inventive, literary qualities of Death Cab for Cutie and the emotional overflow of early U2.
It's hard to get too upset by Mead's music. He could, technically, be duller. He tries, and deserves a little bit of goodwill for that. He probably feels pretty good about how earnestly – and often – he shares and shares his internal rollercoaster with whoever wishes to listen. He probably has something to share with someone, though he doesn’t have anything new to say. I haven’t seen that Kirsten Dunst tennis movie, but I’d bet that some of these songs would be not too obtrusive in a romantic montage in a Kirsten Dunst tennis movie. However, I need more.
c. 2005 LEO Weekly
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