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The 10 songs on "Leisure Noise," are all mid-tempo and jangly, all catchy without being arresting, like TV jingles. Even after a dozen or so listens, you need the track listing in hand to tell most of them apart. Singer, guitarist and Svengali Cliff Jones has a voice that's almost eerily generic -- a boyish, John Lennon manque whine, occasionally rough with approximated passion. Even at his most emotional, Jones can only recapitulate other, better songs. "My Son Mystic," for example, is a watered-down version of Pulp's searing "A Little Soul," minus the latter's aching regret and tough resignation.

Gay Dad "Leisure Noise" Sire

Gay Dad hasn't made any secret of their somewhat contrived beginnings, but even someone who knew nothing about the band would probably guess that there was little garage jamming or hole-in-the-wall gigging in its past. It's not that there's anything inherently wrong with the idea of systematically pursuing rock stardom -- Madonna long ago made it seem OK to stop hiding naked commercial ambition behind lofty artistic inspiration, and the Runaways were far more prefab than Gay Dad is. The problem is that Gay Dad's phoniness and bland insincerity pervades every note on "Leisure Noise," so that, while it starts out as innocuous upbeat guitar pop, by the end it's sour and grating.

There's no way to know for sure whether the band is an elaborately orchestrated pomo joke or just another toothless pop record made for massive amounts of undeserved hype. But either way, "Leisure Noise" is like a musical robot -- all the parts are in place, but the animating spark is missing, and it feels dead.
salon.com | Sept. 20, 1999

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