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Chris O’Connor, presumptive deity of the airwaves, presents for his debut an album stocked with self-indulgence. While mostly devoid of capital letters, à la e.e. cummings, rocket is full, as the Bard might say, of sound and fury, signifying, well, nothing. Lest you trust that rocket is filled with more Enigma-esque mood-pop contemplations of the “standing outside a broken phone booth with money in my hand” variety, this primitive offering from the wireless gods is racked with canned drum beats, sampled electronic noise, and guitar buzz, and deals with most of the themes familiar to the angry ’90s pop singer—legalization of drugs, lots of loveless sex, the evils of government and religion, the perils of rock stardom, yadda yadda yadda—without establishing a coherent worldview. Take the quasi-street rage of “motherfucker”: “when do I get paid from all the money you made/sellin’ souls on Capitol Hill/another law’s been passed designed/to break your ass/and keep the middle class quiet and still…I’m a bad motherfucker/and my bullet’s gonna find you out.” People have been arrested for sending letters like this to the president, but in the arena of public discourse, I’m sure O’Connor feels he’s gotten something off his chest. Perhaps he should find a phone that works and call someone who cares.—Eric Friedman