After searching long and hard for a way to describe my feelings towards The Flys, I found that the best way to define my cluttered thoughts was to equate the band to the striking image adorning the cover of their new disc, Outta My Way. Standing poised on the front of the liner notes, screaming to be acknowledged, is a picture of a magnificently obese sumo wrestler, arms outstretched, legs crouched, man-breasts sagging pendulously over his fantastic belly. Here is an image wrought with contradictions, a depiction of a past-time that is ancient and sacred, yet undeniable in its humor and ultimate ridiculousness; a depiction of a man seriously treading in the footsteps of his overweight ancestors, yet bringing nothing but comedy and frivolity to a sport which used to command respect and a worship; a depiction of a man who is honest in his convictions, yet so overblown in his mammoth proportions that he can not possibly be taken seriously. Here is a perfect, metaphorical realization of what The Flys are: a band which professes to follow in the footsteps of its undeniably brilliant rock elders, yet is too trite and overblown to possibly be considered as special; a band which preaches a deep love and spirituality, yet is too commercial and pre-adolescent in its west-coast poses to be felt as deeply. The Flys are intriguing, yet they don't have enough self-knowledge to bolt them to any finite musical principal to complement their devotion.

The Flys profess to be a "California band all the way," a group inspired by the melodies of the Beach Boys and the Mamas and the Papas, yet their sound seems to emanate from a completely different time zone. These guys aren't lilting enough to be the Beach Boys, funky or fun-loving enough to be the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Their songs are more equatable to the oeuvre of Creed and Days of the New. For a reason unbeknownst to me, the band does not follow in the footsteps in which it claims to, and thus the music sideswipes you, takes you by surprise.

I wish I could say this surprise was a good one, but I'm afraid it's just the opposite. The Flys write lyrics so childish, so simple and without subtlety, that I'm not sure whether or not to take them as they are presented or as little throwaway jokes, self-conscious jests at immature rock and roll. "Oh it's hard to be kind/when nothing good stays that way/and where I'll go I don't know/It's not my day," sings the lead singer (in pure, heartfelt tones) on "My Day." "All you losers/and all you poseurs/and everybody/who doesn't agree with me/outta my way," the band intones on the title track. Is this sly musical commentary or sophomoric lyricism? I can't tell, and this fact alone leads me to believe the latter. The music itself, though the chord progressions may sometimes be catchy, is usually dull and blunt, with none of the sensuality of the bands the Flys claim to be their influences.

Outta My Way is an interesting record in that it never seems to find what it's trying to become. It's a seedling of an album, a boiling soup pot of influences and creativity with nowhere to go. If the band could focus its energy on utilizing their own songwriting abilities, then it's possible that the Flys could be something extraordinary. If not, they're just plain boring, not to mention very confusing.
The Flys

Outta My Way

(Trauma)

reviewed by Matt Portenoy