It’s hard to shove your way through a crowd of thousands who are a few steps away from seeing their rock idol, and even harder when you’re sober. I fight to the ticket stand and resist the urge to clip one of the Fillmore’s strange Red Bull vodka lemonades before the crowd herds me into the main hall. As the space opens up, I take in the view around me—half prohibition speakeasy, half disco hall, full of people somehow dressed for both.
I confess that I’ve been a fan of Inhaler for some time now. The band itself seems straight out of a 2014 Tumblr fever dream, four lads in leather from Dublin led by a heartthrob lead singer—Elijah—who also happens to be Bono’s son. Yes, that Bono. They have quite the passionate following—when Elijah leapt out on stage and shook off his leather jacket, a woman standing next to me literally buckled.
Like the cowboy discotheque venue, the band itself is halfway in between two very different worlds: hardcore guitar rock and boy band pop. I discovered their music during the pandemic, when their debut album It Won’t Always Be Like This filled the The Strokes–shaped hole in my heart. Since then, they’ve put out two more albums and earned comparisons to a veritable who’s who of indie rock—Arctic Monkeys, Kings of Leon, and of course, U2. The band’s guitar technique is impeccable, with memorable riffs and an overall cleanliness that suggests a far more experienced group. “My Honest Face” and the sunnily romantic “Cheer Up Baby” are still mainstays on my playlists, and I don’t expect that to change any time soon. Their newest album Open Wide was advertised as an artistic evolution—the same guitar rock you know and love, now with pop appeal.
At least, that was the idea. To bust the charts wide open, Inhaler called in the pop cavalry—Kid Harpoon, the producer behind Harry’s House, and Amy Allen, the songwriter behind most of Sabrina Carpenter’s biggest hits. As such, I fully expected to be writing this review defending the band against inevitable accusations of selling out. "Pop rock is not less rock,” I murmur underneath my breath, “it’s more pop, and the combination of the two brings out the emotion”. Instead, I left the concert feeling … nothing.
Open Wide is not a poor album by any means: Elijah is still a fantastic vocalist, with incredible power up high and a surprisingly vulnerable belt that suits the band’s “you’re tearing me apart” material. The guitar work is still sharp, as evinced by the late 80s rumble on “Eddie In The Darkness." I sometimes make coffee in the morning to the light and fun “Your House." So why my ambivalence? Frankly, the songs are not there. Instead of letting rock and pop complement each other, the album has them canceling each other out. Save for the arena rock chorus on “Still Young," Open Wide features 48 minutes of music without a single memorable feature or melody. Even the song titles are uninspiring: “Again”? “Yeah Yeah Yeah”? I did not think it was humanly possible to collaborate with Amy Allen, who co–wrote “APT” and “Espresso,” two of the biggest earworms of the past decade, and walk away without one line you can put on merch. I can’t even order coffee nowadays without my brain going “that’s that you espresso.” The band mistakes mellowness for apathy and strips out all of their edge in fear of turning off pop listeners.
A significant part of what made Inhaler distinct on their earlier albums was their power. “It Won’t Always Be Like This,” the title track from their debut album, punched a hole through any nepo baby accusations with a wail of desperate heartbreak. No such power is found on Open Wide, the band’s self–described quarter life crisis album. The subject matter itself also wears thin—say what you want about Elijah’s old man, but U2 was a band with a conscience. “Sunday Bloody Sunday” is one of the most famous protest songs of all time, and the band followed it up with the visceral “Please” and “Bullet the Blue Sky” pleading for peace. Not every band has to take a political stance, of course, but ten years and three dozen songs about how much love hurts later, the subject does start becoming a bit repetitive. Take “Little Things” as an example, yet another Inhaler song about a rocky relationship, where the band flips through a flashcard set of romantic clichés. Take my shot, ain’t gonna miss, reach for the stars, they’re all that you’ve got, partying until the world ends, so on and so forth. One wonders if they were signed by Polydor Records or the Hallmark Channel.
Still, the band puts on a great show. Beams of light pierce the wooden walls of the Fillmore, giving the impression of bullets whizzing through the air as the band plays on unbothered. When the band feels like getting their punk rock on, red flames shoot up from below and the bass thumps loud enough you can physically feel your heart shake. A sly smile, a free–handed solo, a dance with a lucky girl in the front row, a great cover of good ole’ rock–and–roll.
I didn’t buy their t–shirt though. It just felt like one more notch on the ledger of a band that’s increasingly playing by–the–numbers. A decade on from their debut, Inhaler is less like a breath of fresh air and more a faint whiff of flop sweat.
