Album Review: Peter Frampton's Fingerprints

Peter Frampton will never poof up his hair again, slide into too-tight black leather, or feminine jackets. He's middle-aged, bald, and not the mega star of the '70s, but that won't stop him from showing us a new, even crappier way-releasing the instrumental album, Fingerprints.

Frampton says he wanted to record an instrumental album his whole life (inspirational music playing in background), and since he floundered getting back to the bright lights, that's certainly where he found the time for this jewel. Too bad the album isn't as contagious as Frampton's attitude toward it. Calling it viral is a bit much, but musical nausea rings right.

Today's generation balks at vocal-less records. No one under thirty, or without their virginity listens to Frampton. But Framptonites will unite like Captain Planet's Planeteers, gargling nerd approval for low-key rocker tunes, with tracks throwing tribute to folksy, grass roots styles, like "Shewango Way", "Blooze", "Grab a Chicken (Put it back)", "Smoky", and "Blowin' Smoke."

Surprisingly, Frampton scared me with his first two tracks, "Boot it up" and "Ida Y Vuelta (Out and Back)." They kind of resemble good, though I realize people will view that as the equivalent of saying Leprechaun in the Hood was a great film. The former is a catchy rock shaker that could masquerade as an early '90s sitcom theme. "Ida Y Vuelta" tests positive for mariachi, a cultural blast that's savory but runs long, straddling the annoyance of elevator music at its conclusion.

The last track, "Souvenirs De Nos Peres," is energetic, with an uplifting French twist. At least it demands attention, and doesn't waddle in repetitiveness like rock clunkers "Cornerstones," "Double Nickels" and "Float." For musicians, "Float" is neat because Frampton and guitarist Gordon Kennedy play harmonizing electric guitars. The problem is, they do it so well casual listeners won't have a clue there are two guitars on the track. Like the last kid picked for kickball, his effort's impressive, but he still sucks.

Flies hover all over Frampton's cover of Soundgarden's "Black Hole Sun." I can't tell if it really stinks, or was just a bad idea. You line it up; Frampton's a dinosaur, doing a song that's 10 years past its prime. It's like going to the supermarket to get Cocoa Puffs and ending up with "Chocolate Balls." It sort of tastes like chocolate, but a lot like cardboard, too.

The allure of Frampton's album might be his collaborations with heavyweight pals in the industry. The Rolling Stones' Charlie Watts and Bill Wyman ("Cornerstones"), original Shadows members Hank Marvin and Brian Bennett ("My Cup of Tea"), Pearl Jam's Mike McCready and Matt Cameron ("Black Hole Sun" and "Blowing Smoke"), Warren Haynes ("Blooze"), Nashville musician Paul Franklin ("Double Nickels"), British saxophonist Courtney Pine ("Boot it up"), and guitar maestro John Jorgenson (Souvenirs De Nos Peres"). Basically, in the end it's a who's who of who cares?

You have to be musically absorbed, bath in instrumental purity, and have the ability to read War and Peace in one sitting to have the wherewithal to keep your eyes open through this disc.

Frampton's Fingerprints is a ghastly scene of impotence. It's nothing new; Frampton's been shooting blanks for over 20 years anyway. If only this review was an instrumental expression...it'd curiously sound like my head repeatedly slamming against the wall.