An acquaintance recently decided that after 10 years, four albums, thousands of miles touring the world and a handful of those cringey “Ship Rocked” cruises, he was adjourning his band. The pretext involved “leaving on a high note” and that “you never hear fans or writers talking about a band’s ‘essential, groundbreaking eighth album.’”
The members of SoCal post-everything ensemble Failure might read that line and think “cool story, brah” while laughing aloud. Because as the trio delivers its seventh long player, its sense of self-awareness, internal editing and transitional sonic wanderlust remains as compelling as ever. Untethered from L.A. rock scene expectations, their sordid drug histories or the alleged need for critical pigeonholing, Ken Andrews,…