This came to me with a Post-It Note attached: “Naïve Rock." This is telling: first, the Bandoppler office has surely gone corporate (Post-Its? I’m so sure, gosh!); second, the editors are giving me insight. Actually, I’m sure they were being cheeky, but who cares. Next step: read the bio.

“The album title says it all." Oh boy. “If Tennis Pro doesn’t write a new chapter in Seattle’s musical legacy...." Are you kidding me? Not with these songs. Guitarist David Drury is quoted, “We just want to bring a little bit of joy back to the scene.” Are you serious? “Tennis Pro’s answer comes in catchy retro-pop anthems with hand-clap choruses...." Yawn. "....Beach Boy harmonies...." Naturally. “Happy Is The New Sad is bursting with fruit flavor." I’m gonna barf.

Reading that self-indulgent exercise in English 101 hyperbole, I think to myself, “This band probably wears 1970s white tennis outfits and terry cloth headbands to add a touch of twee-Slipknot-meets-Jimmy-Connors-pastiche.” And then the bio proclaims: “Tennis Pro dons white pants, track suits, headbands, and the occasional Olympic Gold Medal.” Yep, it said that! Tennis Pro, do you want me to hate you?

Over 11 tracks Tennis Pro plays the silly-novelty-song-thang perfected by Ben Folds Five, Weezer, and most recently, Fountains Of Wayne (oh yeah, they are name checked in the bio). The songs are decidedly pop with everything you would expect from bands in this tired milieu: vintage synth lines farting up the songs, tongue-in-cheek lyricism, and heard-a-million-times-before power popping geetars.
Simply put, Tennis Pro is high on style/image and the songs just aren’t there. They revel in being geeks (in tennis gear), in words found in High School notebooks (what is this shit about “Dad’s Camaro?"), in being “funny.” They try so hard, and that’s their problem.

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