Ladies, ladies, ladies...when will you ever learn? Rock singers are appealing, sure: they sweat and they strut and they wear their jeans skin-tight (the better to accentuate their stuffed crotches). Maybe they're even a little sensitive, too, with their liner note dedications and their power ballads. But once the break-up comes around — and come it will — you'll be spending the rest of your life hearing about what a bitch you were, and it's safe to say that no amount of free backstage passes is worth that. Just listen to the Architects' latest album, Revenge: frontman Brandon Phillips tears out of the gate with "Reciprocity," a broken-hearted tirade whose declaration of vindictiveness ("I want you to say / I give good reciprocity") bears traces of sexual sadism, and doesn't let up from there. Clearly, someone has pissed this man off in a bad way - and like any self-respecting rocker, he's gonna show it with a good old-fashioned break-up album.

And normally, that wouldn't be a problem. Some of the best and most passionate records in rock history have been fuelled by anger, after all, and Revenge has the added benefit of aiming its bile at more than one target. Phillips doesn't limit himself to revenge against just one woman: he sends equal amounts of rage to power-abusing police ("The Badge"), people who badmouth his neighborhood ("Don't Call It a Ghetto"), and yes, Society Itself ("Body Armor"). The trouble is, there's very little on this album that isn't about being pissed off; it's a fairly one-dimensional effort in both sonic and thematic terms. Add to this basic flaw the fact the Architects frequently sound like the illegitimate offspring of Bad Religion-style modern punk rock and "Danger Zone" by Kenny Loggins, and you'll understand why Revenge is unlikely to ever become the next Blood and Chocolate.

Some of these shortcomings, admittedly, can be explained by simple overproduction. Revenge only took four days to record, but the production work by John Seymour (also partly responsible for Santana's Supernatural) is glossy and radio-friendly enough to have taken four months; this works against the Architects, whose brazen, punkish rock would be better served by a more stripped-down, less flaccid sound (and it'd probably sound a lot less Loggins-esque, too). Quite frankly, Seymour's work is a double-edged sword which cuts its wielders in both directions: the hooks are either too big or not big enough, and in both cases they're thrown into sharp, unforgiving relief.

But not even the least sympathetic of producers can be blamed for faulty songcraft, and that's where Phillips and company aren't off the hook. These songs simply aren't that great. All of them coast by on the same old fist-pumping punk posturing, almost invariably taking the easiest of easy ways out: there's the riff, there's the throaty howl, there's the Big Chorus, every element present and accounted for and exactly where you were expecting them to be. The end result is an album which comes off as more than a little samey and monotone; it may drive the kids wild at Warped Tour this summer, it's even likely to win the Architects major label attention, but where's the soul?

All in all, while Revenge might work just fine as self-therapy, it's far from the kind of break-up record I'd like to have written about me. But then again, what better revenge than to immortalize your ex in song... and then make everyone forget about it?

Reviewed by Zach Hoskins