When I pay for a Dee-troit Cobra, I expect a huge black snake coiled in a pool of grease with a shiny, metallic cowl, skin made from recalled Firestone tires, and fangs dripping with venomous gasoline. I want it to hiss like a demon and grind like a faulty axle. I do not want some Ronnie Spector imitation fronting an oldies band.

Regrouped after a four-year hiatus, this retro-soul act does its share of playing out in the Motor City scene. They're getting the band together and playing soul music, which is a Blues Brothers/Commitments type story you've gotta love, if not listen to. So here are some questions you might ask yourself: do you listen to the Commitments instead of Wilson Pickett? Do you think the Black Crowes' take on "Hard to Handle" surpasses Otis Redding's version? If so, you might enjoy Life, Love and Leaving. After all, bassist Eddie Hawrsch (aka Eddie Harsch-- whoever wrote the insert also misspelled Otis Redding's name) is the keyboard player from the Black Crowes.

The Detroit Cobras should continue providing live music for their local scene. That is a noble endeavor. Rachel Nagy is a fine belter whose bluesy growl and soul hiccups no doubt get a bar jumping. Yet to slap this disc into the player thinking it's the real thing, you'd just be kidding yourself. True, the Cobras have delved deeper into the soul catalog than most cover bands, coming up with competent versions of Ike & Tina Turner's "Can't Miss Nothing," Ottis (aka Otis) Redding's "Shout Bama Lama" and other obscurities. However, the soul routine is mere homage, without any original heat. Nagy hits all the right notes, but never makes these songs real. It's rote nostalgia. Maybe that catch in her voice on "Cry On" (written by Ronnie Mack of "He's So Fine" fame) isn't affected, but for the most part, the singing:soul ratio is only slightly better than Cher's version of "Shoop Shoop Song (It's in His Kiss)" or Tracey Ullman's take on "They Don't Know."

Nagy is the story because the band isn't. They're a smooth, tight band that never speaks as a single beast. They're fine backing musicians, but no smoke rises. This is often billed as punk music, but the Cobras veer closer to sounding like a good wedding band. Perhaps this is the result of an energy-sapping studio session, but the accompaniment could use some grit, some weird distortion-- anything to make it more interesting.

Their best moment comes with the opener, "Hey Sah-Lo-Ney--" the closest thing Mickey Lee Lane ever had to a hit-- incorrectly listed here as "Hey Sailor." A snakecharmer's call-and-response over a barnstorming boogie, this one song is the bright moment of a weak offering. Soon after, it becomes a corny affair, full of Chiffons-esque sha-la-la's and Ronnie Specter Whoa-ho-ho's and little fire.

The Detroit Cobras don't anger me. Maybe that's because they're in no way famous. Give them a gold record for this kind of pale imitation, and perhaps I'd get upset. Maybe their saving grace is that they don't go for obvious hits, as you might remember Michael Bolton used to do. It's really unfair to compare this earnest bar band with hacks like Cher and Bolton. (Come to think of it, I haven't heard Michael Bolton in a while! Life is getting better!) Of course, no one's really doing the old soul trip these days. Old psychedelia, old heavy metal, retro-techno, it's all going on again and again. But the closest thing you get to the Supremes during this arc of predictability are the state-of-the-art Destiny's Child.

The recently departed Make-Up did this music (and destroyed it) right. It's a little sad that all we have going in old soul recycling are these poor rockers trying to do it correctly, and so, of course, doing it wrong. They mean no harm, and they sincerely love their betters. They're just worse. This CD doesn't get played again unless I find a mix tape segue that's crying for "Hey Sailor" or whatever it's called. There are lots of snakes out there; this one doesn't have enough venom.

-Dan Kilian