Over the course of their mid- '90s tenure as "Officially Sanctioned Indie- Rock Scenesters," the three middle- aged- looking men in Silkworm have toured with such luminaries as Pavement and Guided By Voices, and have recorded with Steve Albini. Their records have been put out by instant- status record labels like Matador and now Touch and Go.

So, you think to yourself, Silkworm must be pretty good, right? I mean, if all these people work with them, they must be kind of interesting. They're probably somewhat smart or unique. At least one member of the band must be incredibly sexy. That's where you, the record- buying consumer, would be wrong. Silkworm is painfully plain, somewhat dumb, extremely run- of- the- mill, and, judging by the shots of the band on the cover, not partuculary sexy; not even in a teddy bear sort of way. It's further proof that while osmosis may work for the purposes of cell development, it just doesn't cut it in the world of rock and roll.

Blueblood is filled with perfectly average, not- quite- arena- rock- ready tunes that go nowhere and take a long time to do so. The guitars ring like so many suburban garage acts, the bass and drums plod along like mule footsteps, and the vocalist's voice quivers like raw liver that's been slapped. Over the course of 10 songs, Silkworm musters some decent moments, but they quickly give way to aimless noodling and fake rock postering. Throughout, badly- rhymed teenage poetry abounds (reprinted in the cover insert, just in case you missed them)-- on "Beyond Repair," a song about sex throughout the world, the following lines are allowed to pass: "I love Amsterdam, the girls are so sweet/ They give themselves away for free/ But in America, you got to pay for your treats/ It's not a bad system at all/ Who wants to fall in love with a whore?/ Not me, less you, least of all Winnie the Pooh."

Or witness this poignant ode to a friend in need from "Redeye." "Well you're gonna need/ A different kind of look outside balled up in solid energy/ Red eye/ I thought it was green/ How can you be a load or two shy/ What went on with Tammy?"

Who the fuck is Tammy? If you're like me, you're confused about this charmless slag. And disappointed.

-Samir Khan