I'm the kind of person who, when possessing no prior knowledge about a band, prejudges them by their cover art. (You know you've done this, too.) So before I pressed play, I gave myself some time to analyze the artwork for Up High in the Night:

A white, subtly non-angular bell-like shape is sandwiched between a calming stripe of forest green, and three birds perched on a branch against a navy blue background. The word "ARLO" appears in blocky lettering below the white geometric figure. The record's liner notes are similarly relaxed, filled out with naturally curved shapes and sedative colors. Even the title exudes an aura of tranquility.

So from this description, who among you would have expected garage rock? Show of hands? Anyone? Of course not. Well, that's what you get with Arlo. Even the implications of the band being signed to Sub Pop didn't catch on until the 15-second mark of the first track. I pressed play expecting soothing subtlety, and the opening subdued guitars and ride cymbals of "Forgotten" seemed to meet those expectations. Then, the driving distortion and crashes kicked in, at which point I dispelled every false notion I had about them and listened with open, unprejudiced ears.

It turns out that, much to my chagrin, Up High in the Night is just about the blandest example of this genre you could find. As much as I hate to break one of the grand rules of The Complete Idiot's Guide to Record Reviewing, I've gotta say, the melodies and power chords of "Forgotten" are pretty fucking easily forgotten by the time the next song begins. And the fact that "Forgotten" is probably the best song on the record doesn't help these guys out much.

Up High in the Night plays out in similar fashion. You'll be surprised when it ends so quickly; 35 minutes translates to 15 in Arlo Standard Time. On the first listen, certain things may stand out, like the heavy Elvis Costello influence on "Shutterbug," or the blatant unoriginality of the chorus from "Loosen Up," which laments about you having it, him losing it, and neither of you ever getting it back again. But on the second listen, or any listen thereafter, the songs melt to a blur.

Arlo, a six-piece who usually sound like a trio, have two drummers. It's an unwritten rule that two drummers make any rock show twice as cool; this rule, however, doesn't necessarily apply to a record. Soup (you know, like Bono, or Cher) and Adam Wade share drum duties, mostly simultaneously, although you wouldn't know it. They both play the exact same thing at the exact same time, with very slight variations, if any. This provides a fairly interesting and steady groove on "Sittin' on the Aces" and the otherwise abominable "Oh Yeah," but does nothing for the other 10 songs. Why not just double it up in mixing?

Looking at Arlo's line-up also inspires another question: why do four people play bass? Sure, there are two guitarist/vocalists, Nate Greely and Sean Spillane, who, incidentally, are impossible to distinguish from each other. And there are also two people credited solely as bassists-- Shmed (you know, like Bono, or Soup) and Rod Cumming, not including the pristine bassmanship of Greely and Spillane. Was one guy simply not capable enough to play the entry-level bass riffs required by these three-chord songs?

I've probably said a lot more than is necessary about Arlo, since what really matters in the end is: they're just nothing special. The shattering of expectations might sound like a good thing, but it usually involves unpredictability-- obviously not the case here. I doubt three birds perched on a branch inspired this music. In fact, based on the beautiful package, I would have much rather heard the music I thought I was going to hear.

-Spencer Owen