After Flickerstick pulled a thrilling, narrow victory for the title of VH1's "Bands on the Run" series, the dudes, as they would tend to call themselves, ignited their van and set off to conquer the world through a set of gigs at overpriced theme bars and restaurants. The highlight of the Planet Hollywood show in Cleveland was certainly the all-you-can-eat bin of Bruce Willis's Cap'n Crunch-breaded chicken fingers. Though, another outstanding moment came when one of the ladies from "V.I.P." kissed the guitarist on the lips at the Harley Davidson Café in Phoenix. The bassist even scored some oral sex in Portland, but later realized that sucking off the chef for free Rainforest Reubens isn't exactly Vince Neil behavior. So this was the rock and roll life, they thought.

Flickerstick played with some really great upcoming bands on this tour. Dis Aster Master, Konstrunktion, Hot Molly, No Soup for U, and Gearbox all influenced the guys to no end, and you can bet bits of their sound will rub off. But audience members at the House of Blues show in Chicago, mostly there for the free admission and Blind Lemon Jefferson Key Lime Pie, couldn't help but wonder: who was this spunky mop-top band opening for Flickerstick? And why were they so brutally awful?

Wolfie. With the title of their 1999 sophomore album (notable only for sort of having the same cover as Travis' The Invisible Band), Wolfie asked, "Where's Wolfie?" Tall Dark Hill, the follow up, answers with a resounding "over there." On the opening track, Joe Ziemba, singer and writer of such tunes as "Little Bee Is Dancin'," announces in a nasally whimper, "After years of struggling, I finally believe in myself." Hey, if opening for Flickerstick fulfills you, godspeed. It's your career zenith.

This third album sees Wolfie flirting with heavier 70's textures. But as the band blindly stumbles into more conventional realms (in that the songs no longer sound recorded by infants in a sock), the more pathetic they seem. "Everybody Knows How to Cry" blatantly, criminally, shamelessly borrows Marc Bolan's Slider boogie, but ends up more closely approximating the cartoon-rock of Bolan's Saturday morning "Marc!" show. Even worse, Wolfie evokes Led Zeppelin on "You Are a Woman." You're better off watching Jason Lee lip-synch "Fever Dog." Of course, any attempt by Wolfie to improve should be commended, but even after three albums, they've still only got the reach of a Thalidomide baby.

Godforsaken musicianship imbued Awful Mess Mystery, Wolfie's debut, with near-haphazard art-rock style, to which its title intentionally nods. Their complete lack of talent brought the sound closer to U.S. Maple than the Zombies comparison so often flung around in their press releases. The songwriting eventually turned melodic by simple means of not being atonal. On Tall Dark Hill, Ziemba runs his pipes up and down standard scales, jumps the standard octaves, and ooh's the standard aah's when he feels like it, but this should never be mistaken for actual pop skill. Melody oozes from every jingle, elevator, bird, radio, and whistling business man. We're cocooned by melody. Why should lowest-rung mimicry be commended? Harmony is the easiest of sounds for the human animal to successfully exude. Anyone can hum. It's the unexpected notes that measure talent. At the very least, surround yourself with people who can play their instruments; drummer RJ Porter propels "Living Island Is Real" with cowbell and kiddie-pool cymbal splashes, but handles the traps like he's playing with his feet.

Modern twee bands oddly pay homage to the 60's by approximating the bubblegum bands. It's not the Kinks, Beatles, and Zombies these kids are after; it's the Ohio Express, 1920 Fruit Gum Company, the Archies, and whatever other names Kasenetz and Katz wrote under. That's all well and fine. I won't start a debate on the merits of crafted, commercial pop. But where these twee bands lose the path is in forgetting that those songs were recorded by accomplished session players, in posh studios, with teams of professional writers. What's the point in hearing three college kids from rural Illinois hack away their very own "Sugar Sugar?" If you want bubblegum, you toss a stick of Wrigley's in your mouth, not some sap-ball your retarded cousin pulled off an acacia tree.

Whenever Amanda Lyons opens her mouth, the songs drastically veer towards early That Dog material. These days, That Dog might be working at Hot Dog on a Stick, as one of their videos depicted. And those girls were the daughters of producer Lenny Waronker, and jazz legend Charlie Haden, one of the most skilled musicians of the 20th century. Genetics have a funny way of working. But the gods have an even greater sense of humor. If Awful Mess Mystery was the joke, the aspirations of Tall Dark Hill can only be the punchline.

-Brent DiCrescenzo