Gavin Rossdale reminds me of a popular high school senior who wants to be taken seriously by his snotty college sophomore brother. The harder he tries to prove that he's a peer, the harder he gets kicked in the teeth for trying. No matter how tightly he closes his eyes and wishes, Rossdale isn't Kurt Cobain, and his band Bush is neither Nirvana nor the Pixies. Big surprise then that Bush's second album, the Steve Albini-produced "Razorblade Suitcase," isn't the equal of "In Utero" or "Surfer Rosa." Then again, it's less pretentious than Frank Black's recent solo work, and it sounds better than Kim Deal's post-Breeders offshoot, Tammy and the Amps. It's also more substantial than anything produced by Krist Novoselic's phantom outfit, Sweet 75.

"Razorblade Suitcase" isn't a good album, but it's better than the brickbats it'll receive, most of them sure to be as flat-footed and obvious as Rossdale's slavish imitation of his heroes. Rather than point out which sonic echoes can be traced to what sources (believe me, it can and will be done), better to try and decipher why "Razorblade Suitcase" will outsell Nirvana's live album, "From the Muddy Banks of the Wishkah," by a factor of 3-1. My theory is that today's high school seniors have outgrown Green Day's bratty attitude but are still too young for late '80s nostalgia; after all, they were 10 when Nirvana's "Bleach" was released. Rossdale's pothead poetry ("I am poison crazy lush/Built these hands to lift me up") is just obscure enough to be mistaken for meaningful, in the same way Claire Danes' character in "My So-Called Life" mistook the lost look on her beautiful boyfriend's face as proof of a deep, tortured soul.

"Razorblade Suitcase" is full of lines that will reverberate with a lot of 17-year-olds: "Nothing hurts like your mouth." And: "You have no right to calm me down." And the biggest ache of all : "I'm with everyone and yet not." Imagine that. Rossdale, cheekbones and all, is just a beautiful freak. Of course, it's unfair to print lyrics out of a musical context. Put them together with Rossdale's wounded voice and the band's careful sonic fury and you have the soundtrack to many a teenage seduction. Many a lonely Friday night, too. It's easy to hear why "Swallowed," a pretty wallow in self-pity, has already become such a big modern-rock radio hit. I'm both glad and jealous that I'm too old to appreciate its full genius.

— Keith Moerer

Keith Moerer is a freelance writer whose work appears in New Times/Los Angeles, City Pages in Minneapolis, and Request.