Solo albums from popular bands are like when your favorite superhero decides to go off and star in their own spin-off movie — exciting in theory, but sometimes you just end up with “Aquaman: The Extended Guitar Solo.”
Usually, the story goes like this: The bassist, tired of being ignored, suddenly thinks the world is dying to hear his 12-track concept album about medieval farming techniques. The drummer? He releases a record that’s basically 40 minutes of rhythm experiments and somehow calls it “Percussive Journey, Vol. 1.” Meanwhile, the lead singer drops a moody acoustic album, desperately trying to prove he’s not just the guy who screams into the mic — now he also screams into a harmonica.
Of course, every solo album gets hyped as “the real creative vision” behind the band. Translation: “This is what I’ve been annoying everyone with in rehearsal for the last 10 years.” And the reviews? Always polite. Critics write things like, “It’s an interesting exploration of sound” which is code for “We can’t sell this, but we respect your bravery.”
Still, there’s something charming about it. A solo album is basically a musical diary entry we weren’t supposed to read — sometimes it’s brilliant, sometimes it’s awkward, but either way, it proves that even rock gods want a little alone time.