“Pop Rock” would be pop rock only in some alternate universe where Thurston Moore and Leonard Cohen top the charts. Neither the horseshit stench of Nickelback-esque radio fodder nor the sweet candy fizz that allegedly exploded that cereal commercial kid’s head is anywhere to be heard. Instead CFP plays like unplugged grunge on a Nyquil bender — layered guitar lines plod methodically, dripping Jason Tremillo’s thick, sleepyhead vocals into a chorus-less, mumbled puddle probably too wonderfully understated and self-sufficient to appeal to those less-discriminating masses seeking a formulaic derivative tame enough to mix with soda.
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