This looks like a screenshot from Harry Potter and the Sorceror’s Stone.

If you are one of the many fey children who got into emo in 2011 because you really liked Man Overboard and you wanted to see why all of their fans were so into Title Fight, you probably ended up making your way to the seminal Midwest emo band American Football, and their debut LP, Americ Anfootball, which has now become the mascot for 90s emo. That could not be funnier to me, because at the time American Football were a hushed, pensive math rock band from Chicago that happened to have Mike from Cap’n Jazz in it. Midwest emo was more associated with the indie rock/punk stylings of bands like Christie Front Drive and Braid, not the layered, jazzy textures of American Football.

American Football barely existed, releasing only an (excellent and often over-looked) EP and that venerated LP before Mike moved on to Owen, Steve Lamos became a professor, and Steve Holmes did whatever he decided to do.

An intriguing development, however, was that over the years, the album steadily accrued a cult following among the type of fans who also made Loveless and In the Aeroplane Over the Sea such irritatingly over-played indie records. Not that any of these records are bad, but they are the kind of records you’d expect to find on the shelf of the kid in the Arcade Fire shirt who thinks they’re into “obscure shit” for loving Freaks & Geeks. In other words, basic entry-level hipsters who would probably have nightmares if they listened to iwrotehaikusaboutcannibalisminyouryearbook.

Many have attempted to unravel the mystery of just why this album became so revered why so many of American Football’s contemporaries 99-02 emo contemporaries (Penfold, Benton Falls, Imbroco) have languished in relative obscurity. Some have posited it is because of the innate iconic nature and rebloggability of the house on the cover, while others have suggested that it was because of the ephemeral nature of the band (why do the good die young, and so on and so forth).

In my personal opinion, the album is so popular because the opener, “Never Meant,” is literally perfect. I think it’s a little bizarre that they made a video for it so long after the fact, but the song is gorgeous and it’s always worth listening to again. And even if it weren’t so excellent, it would still provide a more than adequate entry point for kids who want to get into “the roots of emo.” The studio chatter in the beginning creates a faux-lo-fi atmosphere, while the instrumental interplay hovers right in the middle of being enjoyably pretty and too odd to be accessible. Everyone involved is clearly a talented musician, and Mike’s lackadaisical, under-confident voice sings the type of lyrics that could be confused for the composition-book scribbling of that guy who sits next to you in pre-calculus and seems to be desperately hoping that his messenger bag will impress that girl with the Zelda Fitzgerald haircut and the Descendents shirt in the front of the room.

Every other song on the record is the type of pleasant-but-unengaging loungemo that has provided me with insomnia aid for many, many moons now. “Honestly?” and “The Summer Ends” are standouts in the same way that sometimes there’s a riff on a grindcore album that sticks in your head for a little bit longer than the rest. The songs are not bad to listen to, and in fact are quite nice as background music, but they seem to have a grudge against hooks or intensity of any sort, even emotional. The time signatures and song structures aren’t mind-bending or wildly experimental, and there’s nothing here that requires deep thinking or listening. It’s not a bad album, to be sure, but all things considered, it makes no sense for American Football to have left as big of an impression as they have (their stellar EP notwithstanding).

That doesn’t change reality, though, and people adore American Football, to the point that the hype for their second record in 17 years, Americ Anfootball 2: The New Batch, had everyone on my friends list stoked, including people who I had no idea were even clued in enough to like them. IKEAcore proponents such as NPR, VICE‘s Noisey column, Pitchfork, and Brooklyn Vegan have been hyping it up as if it’s the Second Coming of Jesus Christ Allin.

And guess what? It’s just okay. Maybe a bit below average, in fact. Perhaps even mediocre.

Mike Kinsella has made a comfortable living warbling along with his acoustic guitar, playing cute, hushed, indie pop jams under the name Owen. He has been doing this for the past fifteen or so years now. Owen is just fine, so I would like to know why Mike and the Steves felt the need to take an Owen record and turn it into an American Football record (this befuddlement is compounded by the fact that Mike already made an excellent Owen album earlier this year, the staid, mature King of Whys).

The biggest issue with 2American 2Football is that it is overly polished. Their debut absolutely crackles with the warmth of three guys goofing around, not knowing what a phenomenon they were set to become. Speaking as someone who lived in Chicago for quite a while, no other record captures the same feeling of listening to your friends play in an Urbana-Champaign suburban basement or the Fireside Bowl quite like Americ Anfootball. The production on this new record feels like it’s trying very hard to capture that warmth, but in the process it comes off as sterile, toothless. I know it seems odd to criticize the production of a band as easy-going as American Football for being toothless, but there’s no humanity or heart to the production job. There’s a strong low end, yes, and it’s very dynamic, but the whole thing feels so crisp and processed. Every time guitar lines chime in opposite headphones, the contrivance makes me want to retch.

As an addendum to that criticism, Mike’s voice has never sounded both so sure of itself and so overproduced. I’m glad that he’s confident, but it was the awkward, unsure-of-himself quality of his voice that made “Never Meant” such a relatable classic. Here he is leaning towards adult-contemporary crooning at times; making some of these songs sound almost like they’re descending into cheesy balladry.

The instrumental interplay is as meditated-upon as ever, and all the musicians click together immediately; once again, however, none of the melodies are particularly memorable. This is elevator emo. The closest this album brushes to genuine passion is Mike’s nearly howled “haaaate to sleep alone” at the tail-end of the otherwise gentle, soothing “Home Is Where the Haunt Is.”

From the opening notes of “Where Are We Now?” the calculated nature of the record borders on unsettling. The closest analogy I could give to the slavish devotion American Football inspires in its fans is the Heaven’s Gate cult; I am sure if Saint Mike commanded it, every one of those prancing hipsters would lay down on the train tracks for him. So there’s no reason for this band to try and pander. Americ Anfootball 2: American Footballer makes the mistake of trying too hard to appear authentic, which reveals its true nature as a record designed to please fans.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with trying to please fans, but often, it seems like American Football is trying so hard to sound like American Football that they forget what made them so special in the first place, which was the tossed-off, almost improvisational quality of their songs. The reason every song on the first LP ended in a fadeout was because the musicians in the band were so in sync with each other that they could conceivably jam together flawlessly until they collapsed of dehydration.

Although their musical synchronicity remains intact on Americ Anfootball 2: Days of Thunder, every song seems so achingly premeditated. American Football songs aren’t supposed to have simple structures and defined endings; they simply exist in time until they do not. The first LP often makes listening to it feel like one is floating; it feels impossible to lose yourself in their newest offering.

I’ll admit, I am biased. From the moment I first heard “I’ve Been Lost for So Long,” I said, “This new record is going to be boring.” And unfortunately, I was right. And that’s the biggest crime that the new American Football record could commit. Although the songs on the debut were fundamentally ethereal and faded into the background as you listened, they were nothing if not compelling. I could hit “pause” at any moment on the new record and not feel the urge to continue or finish the song.

But you know what? All that is okay, and I’m glad that they reunited to make a record like this.

Bands like Braid have already shown that the reunion of a beloved emo band doesn’t mean they can’t remain exciting and innovative; we needed a band like American Football to show that it’s possible for emo royalty to make such a bland, unmemorable record as well. Mike Kinsella has matured, and that much is clear from his output with Owen. American Football is his legacy venture, and much like other legacy bands, there is nothing wrong with them continuing to tour and record for their dedicated cult audience. They put on a great show, so don’t stay home if they come through.

But, honestly? If you’ve listened to the first American Football record, just know that there is next to nothing for you here. There’s some pretty melodies, both vocally and instrumentally, but nothing that will make you close your eyes and breathe in the fall air like anything off the debut LP, and certainly nothing that even touches the melancholic jazz-emo heights of the EP.

I won’t go so far as to say they were never meant to make this record, but I will say that the world wouldn’t be worse without it.