As Subtle as a Hammer, Lit Makes Alt-Rock Debut

** 1/2 LIT

“Tripping the Light Fantastic”

Malicious Vinyl

First the consumer advice: If you’re a KROQ addict who can’t get enough of that modern arena-rock stuff, who loves Stone Temple Pilots, Jane’s Addiction and Bush, who digs Korn’s primal-scream therapy but thinks it would be even better if it came with catchy, sing-along tunes, do yourself a favor: Put down the paper right now and just go to the record store, because “Tripping the Light Fantastic” will send you right into the mosh-pit nirvana of your fantasies.

Now for the review. Me, I’ve got big reservations. Not about Lit’s raw talent and know-how, which are undeniable (the Anaheim band, formerly known as Stain, is as sharp and intense live as it is on CD), but about the whole direction of modern arena-rock.

When it came along in the early ‘90s, the genre was a great relief from the stupid, escapist preening and crudeness of pop-metal--the Warrants, Bon Jovis and Motley Crues of the world. But if it doesn’t start growing up, big, brawny ‘90s alt-rock is going to be about as meaningful come the mid-’00s as such big, brawny hair bands as Warrant and the Crue are today.

“Tripping the Light Fantastic” would have been a blast in 1992. Taken for its visceral appeal, for sheer sonic impact and for hard-rock craftsmanship of melodic hooks and cleverly arranged dynamics, it’s still a blast today.

But as committed and sturdy-voiced a singer as A. Jay Popoff is, as savvy and accomplished and occasionally inventive as his guitar-playing older brother, Jeremy, is, this is ultimately a mix-and-match pastiche of the same old stuff, and I’m growing weary of it.

The fact that Lit is utterly derivative is not in itself the problem. I’ve written plenty of hosannas about pop-rock bands such as Wilco, Liquor Giants and Lunar Rover, who are as utterly derivative of the Byrds, Big Star, Beach Boys, ‘70s New York City underground or ‘60s British Invasion bands as Lit is derivative of STP, Bush, et al.

The difference is that the classic pop-rock tradition is a wellspring pouring forth a usable past that certain excellent rockers can immerse themselves in without drowning their own individuality. They forge an artistic life raft out of witty, poetic or offbeat lyrics, and nuanced singing that captures a complex weave of feelings.

Lit, like most modern arena bands, lives artistically like a rat in a cage, seething in a pile of its own feelings, unable to vent them except with the baldest of straightforward or transparently ironic lyrical declarations.

Popoff’s chesty voice doesn’t communicate in shades of emotional ambiguity, but in black and white. Lit delivers the sledgehammer intensity and immediacy that a lot of people want in rock ‘n’ roll, and that’s valuable to an extent.

But over the long haul, the rock songs and styles that endure will be the ones that resonate unpredictably--that have the pliancy, idiosyncrasy and subtle spins of story and inflection that can hit you in a different way each time.

With plain-spoken Lit, there’s no mistaking the message, and no mistaking that we’ve heard it all before, sung in much the same way.

Straight-ahead vituperation and unburdening of angsty feeling (“My head is like a cage / I’m feeling in a rage”) is almost all you get. No context, no scene-setting, no quirks, no character development, no humor, no imagination or affinity for the literary arts of metaphor and wordplay.

Smashing Pumpkins’ Billy Corgan raging about being “a rat in a cage” is darned good modern-rock radio fodder, but the sort of rock that stays with me would be that of Social Distortion’s Mike Ness, ever the storyteller, painting the outer as well as the inner world in which his youthful rage took place, or the Adolescents finding, in “Amoeba,” a great, highly visual metaphoric crystallization of those feelings: spat-on, punk-rock teen as single-celled creature stuck under a microscope, to be poked and prodded by an arrogant adult in a lab coat.

The most interesting vital signs on Lit’s album come in “Cadillac,” the only song that takes in vistas outside the tormented cage of the singer’s own head. Humor and scenes from life enter the picture as Lit pulls off an unlikely merger of Jane’s Addiction yowling and a Bo Diddley beat. The track is a dopey, fun, All-American car song, a half-celebratory, half-mocking ode to automobiles that get 8 miles to the gallon and come with tail fins.

“How about a ‘64?” Popoff asks enthusiastically. I’d be more enthusiastic about this capable band if the numbers on its debut album didn’t add up so blatantly and familiarly to 106.7.

* Lit plays tonight at Club 369, 1641 N. Placentia Ave., Fullerton. Free. 9 p.m. (714) 572-1816.

Ratings range from * (poor) to **** (excellent), with three stars denoting a solid recommendation.