I am a very lucky man. I eat three hot meals a day, I have a roof over my head, and a family that loves me. I have a killer job and I have killer friends. At least I thought I did.

One day, in a desperate search for something good to listen to, one of my ol' pals recommended Vague Premonition, the latest release by ex- Eric's Trip-ers, Elevator Through (formerly Elevator to Hell). Mr. Friendly gave this record an uncharacteristic, "Aw, you'll love this stuff, man. It is G to tha O to tha O to tha D!" Now, this is a man so stoic he doesn't climb out of bed to take a shit, so when he gets excited, I get excited. But, after spinning ten seconds of Elevator's trite, nubile theater- pop, I started to wonder if my friends really care about me at all.

During the first few beats of Vague Premonition, I was assaulted by both a stupid hissing noise and one of the most repetitious songs this side of Indian folk music. "Energy," the album's opening cut, is a two- and- a- half minute song comprised of two words and one chord. I almost barfed up my wheat- bran. Is that what my friends like? Is this what my friends think I like? Predictable, slacker- rock dressed up with fuzzy, classic- rock guitar riffs and high- school poetry over top? Say it ain't so!

Once I got past the initial, gut- twisting disappointment of being handed a bum album, I realized a lot of the record was actually listenable, but only in that background music kind of way. Despite all the hype and gloss, Vague is pretty typical '90s alternative pop, with some spooky sound effects and moody inflections tossed in for flavor. Unfortunately, here "spooky" means "boring," while "moody" means "pretentious" and "old." The whole album sounds like the soundtrack to a '70s comedy about some kid trying to get laid before prom night.

Elevator steals more good ideas from old music than Puff Daddy does. Even the very artwork of Vague Premonition calls upon the Spirits of Hippies Past. Strobe light drum beats, lava lamp guitars, hashish bar vocals, it's all here in its bellbottomed glory. And while that kind- of- retro thing can be fun sometimes, it always ends up sounding stale. The end product turns into a story that takes too long to tell; you keep listening and listening for something that never quite comes. This album would have been a classic in 1971, but now it's just old hat.

At best, the sound is comfortable, as on the album's standout, "Rain." The notes go exactly the way you think they should-- the way music did back in the old days. At worst, Elevator's sound is irritating and insulting, like damn near every other song on the album. And when these guys aren't busy being all cute and psychedelic, Vague Premonition is about as fun as bear hunting with a jump- rope.

For me, part of this album was especially enjoyable, but only because I really, really dig Pink Floyd. Almost every song on the album sounds like a bad outtake from the Wall sessions, recorded when the boys might have mixed a little too much coffee in with their LSD. I don't mean this in some lame "Gee these guys sound like old rock" way, I mean they actually sound a lot like Pink Floyd. A lot like Pink Floyd, only without the clever lyrics and flying pig.

There's almost enough pseudo- Floyd vibe here to classify these guys as an official tribute band. Mr. Rick White, the Elevator Through's mouthpiece, sports a voice that could be a bad David Gilmour impression. Even though he has a tendency to sound aloof and cold while singing, White's vocals carry the emotions of the songs pretty well. But the problem is, sometimes his speech is so articulate and so subtle that it makes you sick. When he's supposed to be singing softly, he ends up smacking in your ear like he was gnawing on a bucket of KFC. It's so abrasive and annoying you want to punch him in his sloppy, drool- filled kisser just to get him to stop. He should be singing his terrible little song, not trying to spit on my eardrum.

To continue the Pink Floyd/ Elevator Through conspiracy theory, the kids even throw in a cover of Syd Barrett's "No Good Trying," which they creatively spruce up with some electric distortion and background fuzz, producing another album highlight. They turn the King of the Acid Casualties' song into a rocking, freaky, three minute ode to weirded- out spaciness.

Alright, so I know I just spent the whole review bitching about these guys, but the bad shit is really hard to get past. To be honest, the album is better than it is worse, but the songs lack personality. Vague Premonition peaks by its second track and then quickly sinks into a gray quicksand- like pit of repeated lines, repeated chords, and repeated styles. This album would be great to get wasted to-- it might be one of the best pot- smokin' records of the year. But unfortunately, I was nice n' sober when I listened to it. The only way this album would keep anyone's interest for all 45 minutes is if the bong water were still warm and bubbly and your cares were far, far away. On the other hand, you can't expect too much from a band that looks like the three stoner kids your dad pays to mow the yard each week.

-Steven Byrd