Recently, without a shred of guilt, I plundered my mom's record collection. She hadn't listened to them for years, maybe even decades; I can't say for sure because I've never heard her play one of them. Since she never noticed when I made off with her record player, I knew she wouldn't miss the records, either. And she hasn't yet. I didn't end up with a particularly stellar batch, but what did I expect? This was the collection of a woman who, when asked where she was during Woodstock, proclaimed, "I was busy being married." And now she's busy being two years late on the Cuban jazz trend.

So what did I get? More Stan Getz, Leonard Bernstein and Nat King Cole albums than I know what to do with. But I also came away with plenty of recognizable rock albums from the sixties and seventies, albeit of the mellow variety. Joan Baez, the Mamas and the Papas, Simon and Garfunkel... they're all there. So, just for fun-- and for something new to listen to-- I've been subjecting myself to Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme and If You Can Believe Your Eyes and Ears.

Which is why I thought I'd made a mistake after inserting the Clientele's American debut, A Fading Summer EP. Analog hiss. A two-note bassline. A lazy, out-of-tune guitar rolling over itself. "The receiver must still be on Phono," I thought. But no, there it was on CD, and 13½ minutes ticking off the disc changer's LCD. The fey British-accented vocals and First Drumbeat Ever Invented almost forced a double-take. "And when I see your Southern eyes it turns my laughter into stone," sings Alasdair Maclean. Or at least I think that's what he said: the hiss, slight distortion and echo (a contrived attempt at a dated sound?) make deciphering the lyrics a fit job for Classical linguists working on Linear A.

Following "An Hour Before the Light," which first appeared exclusively on a 7", "Driving South" is one of two previously unreleased tracks on this four-song output by the London-based trio. The sparse accompaniment and hiss remain, but the forward thrust that propelled the opening number seems mysteriously absent during these Simon and Garfunkel-esque verses. Fortunately, the chorus picks up a bit, even if it does incorporate a shameless lift from "Dear Prudence": instead of, "The sun is up/ The sky is blue/ It's beautiful/ And so are you/ Dear Prudence," we're offered, "Shopping lists/ Ephemera/ Beneath the silent Kingston stars/ You know." Sound awkward on paper? It's no better coming out of your speakers.

The other unreleased track, "Bicycles," is even less substantial. Every time I try and describe the sound, the words drift off the page. Imagine Guided by Voices, circa 1994, without the hooks. And the lyrics are unbearably dreamy; is there a more forced, faux-'60s opening line than, "Bicycles have drifted through these leaves still wet with rain"? Or how about, "I remember one Sunday, riding in through the gate/ Three balloons in the white sky, 1978?" If this song were a person, it'd be getting its ass kicked by its older brother, Pink Floyd's "Bike," a track barely strong enough to wrestle Nick Drake to the ground.

The final track, "Saturday," was released in Japan, where it should have stayed. But it floated up into the jet stream and now we have to deal with it, too. Taxi lights in someone's eyes, a carnival in the rain, "the evening hanging like a dream"-- someone needs to anchor this hot-air balloon before it flies too close to the sun. Oops, too late.

I don't want to be misleading. The Clientele sound quite nice, hiss and all. Unfortunately, as when trying to find a girlfriend, "nice" only goes so far-- there are weightier issues to deal with, like slow pace, imitation and escapism. In other words, some summers end with a halt. Others fade, and then pass without notice. The Clientele have accurately captured the mood of the latter, but they've also forgotten how one feels after an indistinct summer: it's like it never happened.

-Ryan Kearney