4

Running before walking.

House of Blue Dolls lack the soul and sort of natural coherency that a band gets when they go past the stage of being a bunch of guys with instruments. They have yet to gain that inexplicable Oneness; something about the way in which these guys play sounds like each member is playing their part almost spot on, but are floating just of reach from the others. There is a notable gap between the bass and drums, a loose fabric slung under the foundation of each song and therefore causing each loosely screwed sound and uncertain pang to wobble and shake. In fact, if you want to get extra descriptive, then you only have to take their name and apply in an over-generalised manner... The House of Blue Dolls are stiff at the joints and lacking the oxygen they need to circulate a good band persona and, even though precise and at many points impressive, their delicate, wee frame struggles to keep up with the real thing.

Second song in ('Chevy 51') is a slow-return, chorus-guitar-effect-ridden piece of ooze that edges into a latinesque mamba shuffle that is again a clear and comprehensible construct, but trails off into self-serving solos and middle eight, weak male vocals that sound fit to burst. Guitars are more than capable at what they do. The bridge is almost cringe-worthy, with the melody slipping underneath the spotlight and going into deep notes that are beyond the poor female's capabilities.

'Tangore', meanwhile, is a slice of borrowed ethnicity that takes one further step into the border of Spanish flavours and Mexican smoke and barely returns to tell the tale. Maybe because of the multilingual quality or the change of feel and visions of drunken locals doing the flamenco with two left feet and piss down the legs, this song survives the dominant and unintentional recording quality.

This 'homemade' quality to the recording suggests it was given birth to in a local studio or a mate's house where the bunch of folk get together and bash out and then polish their favourites. It is certainly the worst feature to the release. If it had been put down with some scuzz, with some random noise that was unplanned and an edge that can complement their natural leaning towards a bit of (healthy) slop, it would have changed the appearance and foreboding of the songs. For all we know, these guys are amazing live, but the use of technology and cold rooms to produce the physical material has caused any signs of blood and energy to sink into a safe haven of safe sounds.

The combination of which, if we are painfully honest, all smells of clever knowitall student. The parts are overly thought out, clumsy in that they are pushing each band member to the very hilt of their technical ability and consequently leaving very little forethought as to what is carefree and what a listener needs to feel in order to be associated with them.

You get the impression that these guys would rather die on a rusty spike glazed with flesh-eating ants than get a little dirt on the hands. Check out the polished, professional zoom-pedal guitar sounds, the trigger happy bassist that sits cosily on Flea's knee and the drums that never really settle for the standard beats despite everything being tossed and turned. It is a strange concoction, and may leave you feeling nonchalant.