In November of 1997, as Thanksgiving approached, I was sitting in a conference room in Rockefeller Plaza, alongside dozens of co-workers, talking about Metallica and Missy Elliott and Third Eye Blind and Hootie and the Blowfish and Busta Rhymes and -- well -- pretty much every artist on the Warner Elektra Atlantic roster not named “Sugar Ray.” I think that month the company sold a million copies of “Floored,” the sophomore album from the SoCal band that was born from the gunk left over after Toad the Wet Sprocket, Blink 182 and Sublime. “Floored” was the album that featured not one, but two versions of the hit song “Fly.” It may have been the biggest album Atlantic Records released that year. Every week, we’d look at SoundScan reports and quietly marvel at how the album just. kept. selling. It was like an ATM machine that was placed at the front door of a casino, if that casino was in the heart of Times Square. Mark McGrath and Sugar Ray could be seen and heard everywhere. At every Starbucks and Gap and Spring Break and mall in America. But, inside 75 Rockefeller Plaza, at the Warner Music Group, they were the band that nobody wanted to talk about. Part of that was probably that the staff wasn’t especially enthused about the project -- that Sugar Ray weren’t cool enough or different enough to spend a lot of time with. But also, I suspected that everyone was enthralled with the windfall of their flukiness and was worried that if we tinkered in any way -- if we so much as mentioned their name -- that the gravy train might stop rolling.

Even then, when they were titanically popular to the point of being ubiquitous, there was a lot to dislike about Sugar Ray. There was the fact that they pivoted from second rate Pop Punk to something involving a DJ, Reggae and everything else on the radio. There was the fact that their handsome lead singer could not really sing. And that he had spiked hair with blonde tips. There was the fact that they were the house band for MTV Spring Break. There was the fact that they were the soundtrack for Abercrombie & Fitch stores. And also William Sonoma stores. And that they were somehow loved equally by white fourteen year old girls and their moms. It’s not that “Fly” wasn’t catchy. It was. And it’s not that Mark McGrath wasn’t handsome. He was. It was -- well -- everything else.

I think most of the world assumed that Sugar Ray was a one hit wonder -- a glitch of 1997. The problem was, they weren’t. They got even bigger with their next album, knowingly titled “14:59” (a reference to the ticking clock of their fifteen minutes of fame), and scored massive hits all the way through 2001. Soon after, though the band persevered, they primarily functioned as headlines on the resume of “Mark McGrath, television personality.” It was too soon for 90s nostalgia. “Fly” and “Every Morning” and “When It’s Over” were mostly gone from the airwaves. Those spring breakers had grown up and moved onto Franz Ferdinand and Interpol. And their moms had returned to Celine Dion and Josh Groban. All was right in the world.

Except for the fact that Mark McGrath wouldn’t go away. He traded his sometimes guest spots on MTV for an every night job co-hosting “Extra,” which he then turned into regular work on any and every reality TV show that wanted him (there were many). McGrath was telegenic, charming and boyish. His face, body and voice signified “California sun.” Well, maybe more like “Florida sun.” In the days after Pam and Tommy and Paris and whomever, when celebrity relationships were kind of gorgeous and kind of gross but highly profitable, Mark McGrath was our newsman. His new vocation seemed appropriate, even sensible, in comparison to his job as the singer of one of the most popular Rock bands in America. That previous gig -- that was the mistake. The TV gig seemed almost inevitable by comparison.

Between 2004 and 2008, there were no new Sugar Ray albums. Apparently, there were still some live shows -- spring break and state fairs and Las Vegas still called. But, generally, McGrath was a working TV personality and Sugar Ray was an occasional something or other. Though a wave of nostalgia always seems to come calling, and though most every band who ever had a hit record tries to surf that wave, Sugar Ray had seemingly gone the way of Everlast, Everclear and every other briefly loved, slightly Alternative band from the second part of the 1990s. 

While Sugar Ray was on sabbatical, John Abraham was ascending from wunderkind engineer to superstar producer. He leapfrogged from Staind to Velvet Revolver to, eventually, Weezer and Pink. He bought a famous old LA studio and founded Pulse Recording, where he and his team wrote and produced shiny songs and records for glitzy artists of all shapes and sizes. And though in 2008 there was almost nobody on the planet -- including Mark McGrath and his bandmates -- clamoring for a new record from Sugar Ray, Abraham offered the group a deal. While he was in demand with every Pop Punk, Emo and Hard Rock band on the West Coast, Abraham specifically wanted to work with Sugar Ray. He wanted the world to hear what he heard in their music. He went so far as to ask his friend Rivers Cuomo -- who may have been a fan or an ironic fan or neither -- to write a song for them. Where the rest of us saw past prime hunks, Josh Abraham saw unfinished business. So, in the face of the zeitgeist, and in spite of growing friction between McGrath and his bandmates, in 2008 Sugar Ray began recording the music that would become “Music for Cougars.”

Yes. That is really the name of the album: “Music for Cougars.” As if the premise of middle-aged Sugar Ray wasn’t, unto itself, enough to scare the market away, McGrath selected a title that was an unfunny, though not inaccurate, humble brag. It’s the sort of title that inspires eye rolls. It defies you to press play. In fact, I honestly don’t know why I chose to listen to this album. Maybe Matchbox 20 seemed too pleasurable, or too inoffensive. Maybe Third Eye Blind seemed too vital, like the Stephan Jenkins story was still being written. Maybe I’m a masochist. Maybe my interest in this record with its awful title and stupid cover, from a band that I never liked to begin with, was punishment for something. Maybe I should talk to somebody about this. Whatever the reason, though, I simply could not resist.

Last year, my wife and I had a date night planned that was nearly canceled on account of a last minute babysitting snafu. Instead of forgoing the evening out, however, we improvised. Our daughters were accounted for, but our son ended up putting on his best shirt and pants and  joining us at this fancy steak and seafood place. While there, the waiter, in tie and apron, described the French oysters that the restaurant was featuring that evening. He said they were the largest and rarest oysters we would ever see in Austin. I think they were like thirty dollars each. I was wholly disinterested, but, for some reason, my son was intrigued by the hype and the price. As an expensive lark, we humored him. Three minutes later, when the giant mollusk arrived, we watched him smell, scowl, close his eyes, open his mouth, bite the oyster, chew, gag, chew again, gag again and then, eventually swallow. Honestly, he looked briefly traumatized. We were kind of scared but also giddy with more than a little pride. We were also glad he wasn’t sick. And we presumed it would make a fun story and that we’d move onto more digestible bites, like bread and salad. But, to our complete shock, our son then asked if he could have another. 

That sensation -- of being prepared for disgust, but, then, perhaps against your will, of acknowledging an odd pleasure -- was almost exactly my experience with “Music for Cougars.” On one level, it is a repellent album that every fiber in me does not want to consume. The stupid title. The hanging on. The image of a bleached blonde forty-something year old man flirting with moms and their daughters simultaneously. No thank you. But on some other level that I am still struggling to understand, I have had a tough time disliking it. In fact, it may be oddly delicious. I cannot attribute its appeal to the singer, who is lackluster and autotuned. I can’t claim that the playing is inventive or even compelling, really. Part of the pleasure is surely the songwriting, which is unerring in its simplicity and owes a good deal to Weezer and early Aughts Pop. Part of it is the production, which is slick and bright, and befitting of Katy Perry or Pink more than a Rock band. Part is surely the tone, which never veers far from the boardwalk during Spring Break. Or maybe there’s something sinister at play. Maybe Mugatu from “Zoolander” is in the background trying to hypnotize us as part of an attempt to assassinate members of 311. I’m genuinely unsure. But, whatever the case, the man who scoffed at this album several weeks ago is presently convinced that “Music for Cougars” is objectively very well made and inordinately, almost inappropriately, catchy. Also, I cannot believe that I just said that.

Sugar Ray’s sixth album opens rather inauspiciously, with “Girls Were Made to Love,” a beachy dancehall track that features more Collie Buddz than Mark McGrath. There’s requisite record scratching from DJ Homicide, plenty of autotune and shameless Barbie-fication of its subjects. It’s a slight song and a rough premise that, honestly, sounds better than it sounds -- if you know what I mean. And though it resembles a hundred other songs that you might hear at Six Flags theme parks between June and August, it is an outlier on “Music for Cougars.” The balance of the album sports more formulaic, carefree Pop Punk, slowed down and made with twice the sunshine but none of the vitriol. McGrath and Abraham seem content locking into a vibe and taking zero risks. The result is like a gymnastics routine wherein an athletic, middle-aged man is asked simply to execute a few somersaults and then touch his toes because -- well -- that’s what he’s capable of.

If an algorithm was asked to spit out song titles for a target audience of thirty to forty year olds who want to feel like thirteen or fourteen year olds, they could do worse than "She's Got The (Woo-Hoo),” “Morning Sun,” “Rainbow,” “Boardwalk,” “When We Were Young” and “Dance Like No One’s Watching.” That same artificial intelligence might autotune McGrath’s tepid rasp, not because the melodies are challenging, per se, but rather because the songs are designed to be blended, like frappuccinos -- vocals with instruments, one song to the next, sunrise to sunset, all summer long.

Being an easy target, however, is not the same thing as being a “bad product''.” And, though it did not fare well in the market, “Music for Cougars” is actually a very well made product. In spite of its unfortunate title, “She’s Got The (Woo-Hoo)” is tasty bubblegum. It’s Sugar Ray doing the Black Eyed Peas if they were aware of Franz Ferdinand. It has Handclaps. A touch of actual guitar. New wave synth. More cheerleading than singing. Like most of the album, it lightly smacks the beat and stays on the hook. Over and over. Frankly, it’s undeniable -- whatever issues I have with it are my own and not Sugar Ray’s. 

There’s an uncanniness about “Music for Cougars” that I suspect is the result of its songs being derived from the doll parts of other, beloved songs. “Closer” is a factory made derivation of Kelly Clarkson’s “My Life Would Suck Without You.” And “When We Were Young” nicks the beat from “Love Shack” and a guitar pedal that sounds like a steel drum for a YOLO, wanna-be anthem. Meanwhile, the forty-one year old singer fully relinquishes any leftover souvenirs from his Urban Outfitters, SoCal Punk days while he cheers:

If it makes you feel good and it makes it alright

Then it's bound to connect deep in everybody's eyes

All it takes is a song with a hook and a line

And it's bound to blow up like the fourth of July

Though they are constantly chasing Weezer, Sublime and Blink 182, Sugar Ray should be commended for their discipline. They stick to what they are capable of, and when they find their hook, they hold it. The bridges are simple. The choruses are memorable. And the themes are trite — which is not necessarily a bad thing. Everything is digestible, in the way that a piña colada is digestible -- whether you are a sloshed teenager at the beach of her mother at an all inclusive resort.

“Going Nowhere” is the album’s nominally Emo-ish track. “Morning Sun” is more whitewashed Dancehall. And “Dance Like No One’s Watchin” is the theme song for a Chilis rooftop bar in Fort Lauderdale. They are in no ways lovable but in almost every way pleasant and professional. In fact, most of “Music for Cougars” has an agreeable, almost palliative quality. No song cracks four minutes. If you ignore the words -- which is easy to do -- nothing offends. And with the exception of the Rivers Cuomo song (“Love is the Answer”), which is conspicuous in that it sounds a little too much like Weezer, most of Sugar Ray’s comeback album is the opposite of annoying. And that is kind of annoying.

In 2009, when literally nobody was buying albums and streaming was not yet a viable business, “Music for Cougars” came and went. In spite of its surprising polish, it didn’t catch on with middle-aged moms. Or their daughters. Or the dudes trying to pick them up. It wasn’t played on the radio. Or at Hollister stores. It kind of just disappeared. And meanwhile, there was trouble brewing inside the band. Bassist Matthew Murphy Karges and drummer Charles Stanton sued McGrath for claims that sounded all too familiar (wrongful termination, copyright infringement, etc.) and were probably at least half justified. Publicly, though, the eternally blonde, beach ready, celebrity gossip anchor seemed unfazed. In fact, and in spite of his album’s lackluster performance, life appeared very bright for McGrath. He got married. Became a father. And then, in 2012, when that wave of nostalgia finally rolled in, he formed the SummerLand tour with Art Alexakis of Everclear and partied like it was 1997 again -- always and forever. 

Years passed. Sugar Ray returned to semi-hibernation. Their music receded well into the background. Today, you can still hear them, just not on the radio. On any given day, they might get played on the patio at Applebees. Or you might hear them in the waiting room at the doctor’s office. And though McGrath is entirely blonde and still built like a surfer, he’s miles from the zeitgeist, fading gently like wallpaper in the sun.

“Music for Cougars,” on the other hand, never faded. But that is simply because it was barely heard and never remembered to begin with. If it survives at all, it is as an anachronistic punchline to a dumb joke. But for those few of us who’ve actually heard it, we know the truth. It’s a silly album. It’s pandering. Its derivative. It is absolutely not cool. It may even be slightly offensive. “Music for Cougars” has nothing to do with the Alternative Rock that may have once inspired Mark McGrath and his band. It’s bubblegum. It sounds cheap, but also like cheap luxury. It’s a wellmade, odd footnote to the career of a frontman who completely understands his lane and his limitations. If anything, “Floored” and “14:59” were the flukes. “Music for Cougars” is the genuine article -- the endless summer.

by Matty Wishnow