For a mega-selling act, Fall Out Boy exist almost completely under the radar. Their bassist and effective leader Pete Wentz might be a national figure of fun in the United States, but stepping out with Ashlee Simpson and owning a New York bar is hardly Alist material.

But for young men from mediocre suburbs with a background in the self-sufficient scene that sprang up after Green Day defined punk-pop, such elevation is quite an achievement, and their work ethic cannot be denied. Teenagers need heroes, and Wentz and Co look worldly wise from their perspective. In effect they are the planet’s biggest “emo” band. (Ironically, seeing as so few of their fans are actually old enough to vote, the release of Folie à Deux was delayed while another, rather more significant, Chicagoan, Barack Obama, took centre stage.)

If emo as a sub-genre means anything at all, it offers an escape for those who feel themselves alone and want to let others know. By that definition Kanye West’s new album is the most emo record ever made.

In comparison Folie à Deux, a daft and overwrought slab of slick modern pop for the Guitar Hero generation, is as insensitive as a prison tattoo. As he approaches 30, Wentz’s lyrics, never elegant, discuss adult concerns in adolescent language. It’s like finding out that dad still keeps a diary.

“I will never believe in anything again,” Patrick Stump whines on the clodhopping Coffee’s For Closers. The stadium ballad What a Catch, Donnie actually features an instantly recognisable cameo from Elvis Costello, presumably for his American children. I Don’t Care (“what you think, as long as it’s about me”) is shamelessly knowing glam-rock and therefore condemned to fail. These are the highlights.

Still, by hamfistedly bolting famously familiar styles together – a cursory listen will reveal the influence of Rush, ELO, Michael Jackson (a pointless Beat It cover is tacked on the end), Smashing Pumpkins, The Who and the barbershop harmonies of the Beach Boys, filtered through Def Leppard – Fall Out Boy have created an artefact that offers reference points for four generations of dislocated American families.

This is no mere album; it’s the equivalent of a self-help book, the sound of Dr Phil’s smooth platitudes turned into some kind of generally acceptable pop-rock. And you know, I wouldn’t be surprised if that was their intention all along.

(Mercury, TS £12.99)

www.timesselects.co.uk/music

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