The Rasmus are a Finnish quartet who, following several years of success in their homeland and a rake of indigenous accolades, are looking to make an impact world wide. I figure they’ll be waiting a while.
They’ve got the black eyeliner, scruffy-chic hair, the epic pop rock guitars, stadium-worthy choruses and big soaring soppy ballads, which, oddly – but now that I’ve thought about it, rather aptly – leads me to the disturbing conclusion that The Rasmus are in fact the new Bon Jovi.
The claim that Lauri, the band’s vocalist, is a singer with “a voice full of fire and exstraordinary (sic) beauty” is frankly a lie – his gruff, expressionless squawk is hardly inspiring – and while I appreciate that English is not his first language, lines such as “I died in my dreams/What’s that supposed to mean?” are just plain inexcusable.
As the inlay handily points out, “A dead letter is a letter that has never been delivered because the person to whom it was written cannot be found, and it also cannot be returned to the person who wrote it.” Although The Rasmus’ Dead Letters found its way through my letterbox, it’ll be going exactly the same way as the ‘Convert To Scientology’ flyers: straight into the bin.
Sorry.