There is very little to get excited about on The Black Parade

After the breakthrough success of Three Cheers For Sweet Revenge, My Chemical Romance returned in 2006 with The Black Parade, the much-hyped follow-up that has since gone platinum. The band's style is a fusion of various genres, from goth-rock to punk, and even emo, with the adolescent pretension to match. MCR's latest album has been a hit with the mainstream masses largely thanks to its tremendous first two radio singles, "Welcome to the Black Parade" and "Famous Last Words".

The band didn't exactly get off on the right foot with their newest release. While they were shooting the music videos for the singles, drummer Bob Bryar burned his leg and vocalist Gerard Way injured his ankle. The pain wouldn't last long, however. The album has sold extremely well, and Rolling Stone magazine (somehow) named it the twentieth best album of 2006. Since the RS editors appear to have been out to lunch when they made that statement, it's time to set the record straight on this soporific, cliche-heavy misfire of an album.

Beyond the standout singles, pretty much everything else labors under the weight of Gerard Way's juvenile lyrics. The fact that his voice often wanders into emo territory, trademarked by a high-pitched, nasally shriek, doesn't help his cause. At twenty minutes the album begins to feel bloated and never-ending. At fifty-one minutes, it turns into a soul-annihilating experience on par with watching the Kevin Costner film, The Postman.

The album opens with The End, a perfectly useless intro track that hints at the dreadfulness of the lyrics to come: "If you look in the mirror and don't like what you see/ You can find out firsthand what it's like to be me!" Hot on its heels is Dead! and after slogging through this hookless blunder, the listener may wish they were. Gerard Way stumbles through the proceedings with his patented aching vocals, while his bandmates serve up a barrage of grinding noise. I Don't Love You is an absolute bomb, with more cliches than most listeners will be able to stomach. It's musical flotsam that cries out to be skipped.

Things go from bad to worse as the album's middle section drops in. Cancer is supposed to be a touching, piano-driven ballad, but it sounds ridiculous as Way strains to add an poignant edge to his repertoire. Mama is more energetic, but its chorus line of "Mama we're all going to die!" is absurd, and the endless self-loathing and sullen guitars begin to take their toll on the listener. Teenagers is another hideous pratfall, with a set of lyrics that fourth-graders would find immature. The clunky music is drenched in torment and despair, and the theme of childhood hardship has already been explored ad nausea by this point. Thank your deity of choice that the song doesn't even break the three-minute barrier. The best thing that can be said about Sleep is that it's inoffensive. That's a remarkable achievement, considering it's surrounded by songs that would be lucky to be outtakes from an recording session by The Used.

Alas, MCR does deliver the odd hit now and then. The best of the bunch is easily Famous Last Words. Gerard Way is actually catchy and fun to listen to - for once - and he's supported by Ray Toro's slamming guitar riffs that push the song forward with gusto. This Is How I Disappear is sleek, roaring tune with crisp dynamics and a chorus that is simply contagious. The title track, Welcome to the Black Parade, moves ahead slowly on the back of a pensive piano intro, then gradually adds a marching drum beat before exploding into a raucous frenzy of screaming guitar licks and howling vocals. It's a slick package that instantly connects with the listener, something that sadly, occurs far too infrequently on the rest of the album.

On a whole, The Black Parade is an utterly forgettable release that repeatedly induces groans. After a wobbly beginning that sees the album already on thin ice, things get dramatically worse when the middle section arrives to extinguish any hope for a memorable record. The lyrics are overburdened by teenage angst, and are delivered with Gerard Way's incomparably shrill and insufferable voice. Listeners will have to wade through a sea of melancholy and despair to find the occasional diamond in the rough. The seemingly interminable number of slumberous tracks means that listeners should not operate heavy machinery while subjecting themselves to this album. Stick a fork in The Black Parade, because this CD is cooked.