Bush: The Science Of Things : Music Reviews : Rolling Stone

Album Reviews

Gavin Rossdale of Bush must lead a stale, miserable life. The Science of Things, like Bush's previous two studio albums, is full of woe. "World news, world news," he bemoans in "English Fire." "Burn myself on your bed/ Your crown of thorns, my crown of lead." On "The Disease of the Dancing Cats" he ponders geographically unspecific pollution: "All the fishermen and their families/All sickly crumbling cerebellum." The Science of Things is about fashion and fatigue, boredom and empty spaces, nameless governments and environmental toxins. There's no point of view, no grounding in any personal reality. The guitars are as monolithic and intense as ever; Science is purportedly techno-influenced and loop-heavy, but except for a few computerly bleeps and tweaks, it sounds exactly like the records that came before. The hookiest songs -- "Warm Machine," "Space Travel" -- are best caught on the fly, not pondered or studied. If anything, Science feels a bit more demographically forced: Rossdale isn't feeling his own pain, he's guessing at yours. (RS 825)

KAREN SCHOEMER