Flameshovel’s good rep and commendably mixed bag of artistes sufficed to get my eyes twinkling at this Brooklyn-dude-trio: their name perhaps an REM allusion, their discography boasting an appearance on The Manchurian Candidate soundtrack; my suitably wetted appetite surely ripe for fulfillment yes?
Alas, no.
The Hollywood flirtation of course is side-lined and these niche NYC’ers offer instead a lo-fi hybrid of The Walkmen and The National complete with floundering tit-bits of bass, bitterness and eloquent hookeries for one to sink docile canines into. Although sporadically absorbing it morphs into a phlegmatic-at-best journey that avoids blatant derivation in the main, primarily by lacking vocal or lyrical prowess, but only soars when imitating the aforementioned progenitors.
By the time Stefan Marolachaki declares “this all seems so stale, the words so obvious,” I say ‘here here’ to that and drink to my copy of ‘Alligator’.
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