Ten years after Tears on Tape and six at the end of HIM – as well as four after the interlude with the Agents – is Neon Black the official solo debut album by Ville Valo alias VV.
On this occasion, the package leaflet is full-bodied and over-the-top: “From an artistic point of view, the main difference between HIM and VV is the additional strokes in the heartagram. But the bottom line is that’s an exquisite difference! It’s like The Mamas And The Papas dressed up as Metallica on their way to the big Halloween party at Studio 54.“
And further: “It’s a sonic step-by-step guide on how to survive, and perhaps even enjoy, the realm of VV with its abundance of things that go bump in the night. It’s a teary mascara marathon between Robert Smith and Ozzy, with a dash of hope.”
Which, of course, is complete nonsense. With his unmistakable voice (sometimes a bit too much on autopilot, by no means always seeming inspired beyond lethargy) Valo has nothing more – but also nothing less! – hailed as a pleasantly non-cheesy pop-rock album with a vaguely goth-romantic attitude, recorded in the understated HIM-Comfort zone accessible without barrier for fans or nostalgic ears. Catchy, nice and smoothly composed, the unfortunately annoyingly discouraged middle-of-the-road production, which doesn’t allow any edges, irons a pleasing harmlessness into the risk-free feel-good zone, which doesn’t hurt anyone and can simply be boring.
The implied impact of industrial power in The Foreverlost for example, is ultimately completely assimilated by a hand-tame radio-friendliness; the closer Vertigo Eyes could be progressive, but prefers meandering mushy in its own juice; and the title song remains latently irrelevant as a potential catchy tune for the sum of the parts and without a compelling long-term effect.
Don’t get me wrong: no song on Neon Black is bad! Everything is going really well and competently on the side, staged a bit too uniformly – with guitars without bite and forgivingly sparkling pastiche synths – in places (and especially in the middle part of the album) but just too non-bindingly switch to slack, while over the full distance here and since, despite all the catchy melodies and solid grandezza hooks, tiring lengths open up and Valo’s still gripping charisma in the frustratingly shallow production simply cannot unfold the melancholic drama that can be felt everywhere: with a more attractive outfit there would be at least one or two Points more in the final statement was quite possible.
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