I always worry when aging legends like the Buzzcocks decide, for no obvious reason, that they need to "update" their sound. Ah, ya blighters! Why, why?! I guess the 'Cocks didn't have the money to hire quirky mixing- board doctors like Tchad Blake, Mitchell Froom, or the Dust Brothers to administer this hip, new reconstructive sonic surgery they were evidently aching for. Unfortunately, Modern suffers from some lesser producer's tiresome technological quackery, and lawsuit- worthy studio malpractice.

Yes, there was a time when Steve Diggle and Pete Shelley were two of the greatest guitar players alive, specializing in cyclonic chord changes, imaginative riffs and snappy solos while also creating some of the greatest pogo- ready pop- punk songs anywhere on the planet. Of course, that was 20 years ago, and since those days, they've lost touch with their melodic sides. The barbed- wire hooks are few and far between, and their once- thrilling twin- guitar interplay is nearly non- existent.

I suppose I should've counted on the title Modern manifesting itself in the music as rhythmically- sterile programmed drums, sputtering synth blips and other quasi- contemporary, generic techno- noise. I'm not sure I'm ready for this "technologically advanced" version of the Buzzcocks, which basically translates to: "We're not old out- of- touch geezers! We know what the kids want!"

"But Mike," you say. "You're just a narrow- thinking brute who puts too much emphasis on the role of the guitar in rock music. Embrace the new sounds of futuristic plasticity!" Well, that's only half the trouble. There's a real essential dynamic missing here-- a certain momentum few of these songs never seem to generate. Stillborn rhythms weigh down the album (especially in its second half) which makes for songs that just hang in some purgatorial mid- tempo suspension, never receiving the apt propulsion they sorely need. The guitar riffs are static sonic punctuation, at best. And all but gone are those inimitable Buzzcocks vocal harmonies.

All I know is that, after three listens to Modern, I feel like Bob Segar reminiscin' 'bout them days of old. And I'm desperately waiting for one of these songs to lodge itself in my memory banks. "Well, Mike," you say. "Your skull's reinforced with those steel plates you received after that nasty Gulf War injury. Good music naturally tends to bounce right off that armored cranium of yours." Um... that could be the case, too.

As much as it pains me to say this, Modern is wholly ill- conceived and mind- numbingly dull. You'd think that after a sketchy '80s output and a few years rest to build on the near- misses of 1993's Trade Test Transmissions (an album that sported the Buzzcocks- of- old greatness on at least two tracks), and 1996's All Set, they'd finally craft another classic album. Yet only a few scattered moments on Modern betray even a hint of what the Shelley- Diggle duo is really capable of.

The first cut, "Soul On a Rock," is close to what you'd expect from these guys, although it still sounds a tad too over- processed and streamlined. "Rendevous" sounds like something Blondie could have used as album filler circa 1980 (deduce what you will from that vague assessment). And the feeble "Why Compromise?" treads in Duran Duran territory, at best. Sure, there's nothing wrong with a little fine- tuning, augmentation, or experimentation in one's sound. But what about that bit of wisdom about not fixing something when it isn't broken?

The problem here is that no artistic boundaries are even being slightly nudged here. Modern just seems like a weak attempt by a once- great band to simply sound "current," whatever that means. The songwriting has obviously taken a back seat to these new, half- hearted experiments as trite, geriatric platitudes (see "Speed of Life" and "Thunder of Hearts," for exceptional examples of this) run rampant in the lyrics. Whatever happened to that glorious Pete Shelley wit? Is this really the same guy responsible for the boisterous sarcasm, angst, and humor infusing everything from "Orgasm Addict" to "Oh Shit?"

Sadly, Modern is a tumescent blight on an otherwise respectable body of work from this band. Shelley and the boys should probably either revert back to what they do best or just give up, move back to the Manchester suburbs and begin collecting their social security pensions. Sorry, fellas. Somebody get that damned Howard DeVoto on the phone, pronto. Your old blokes need help.

Just as surely as the Rolling Stones will never write another "Honky Tonk Woman" or "Brown Sugar," it pretty safe to say that, at this rate, the Buzzcocks will likely never again approach the catchy brilliance of "Ever Fallen in Love," "I Don't Mind" or any number of essential tracks written during their fallow '77- '80 period. Will the Buzzcocks, like the Stones, simply resign themselves to the fact that their best years are behind them? Will they mechanically toss off a mediocre new album every so often, simply as an excuse to tour, or just to address the public with the implication that they're still around after all these years. There must be better ways of preserving great legacies.

-Michael Sandlin