The dullness of the melodies is exceeded only by songs as predictable as the rising of the sun and pseudo-emotional claptrap vocals. I am prepared to concede that their rocking (so to speak) melancholy, heavy doses of head nodding and toe-tapping melody may be great for alternative nightclub dance floors, but in the absence of a bottle of absinthe and a latex clad beauty shaking her wobbly bits, it is utterly unbearable. If there are any redeeming features to this release, they are more deeply embedded than an American journalist in Iraq.

There may be some people out there who enjoy the similarly bad HIM and Entwine, in which case this can be wholeheartedly recommended. Everyone else is advised to treat this as if it were the bad part of town.