Imbued with no discernible advantage over the average listener-- save for a slightly more tolerant willingness to brave the garbage heap of music for a gem and the arrogance to assume our opinion might matter to others-- we writers are, at heart, in it for the payoff of hearing good music. Contrary to popular belief, we don't slip the disc into the player hindered by a gargantuan chip on our shoulder. As fans, we certainly have our biases-- styles we're inclined to like or shy away from-- and our preconceived notions, but as critics, we tend to approach assignments with an open ear, hoping our good intentions are rewarded. But as much as we try to balance ourselves; to deliberate based on an album's merits unencumbered, we're certain to derive certain conclusions from a band's name, an album title, and maybe even the cover art.

Or such was my experience with Dream City Film Club's In the Cold Light of Morning. Dream City Film Club? Probably a sneering, ironic art school effort-- aloofly quirky and rife with simple, highbrow digs all too apparent. In the Cold Light of Morning? Sounds stark and depressing, but remember the Dream City Film Club thing? And what about the dead bird on the cover? Isn't it a bit much? And the similarly eerie stuffed mammals that comprise the remainder of the packaging? Now I don't know what to think.

The album's first line, "I was hanging 'round the street trash when you delivered your killer blow," lands one, immediately taking the deliberation to another level. "How was I to know?/ I was grinning in my dirtbowl," sings Michael J. Sheehey over the opener, "Killer Blow," the stark, visceral incarnation that drains the subject of any remaining dignity. Following on its heels, "Nerveshot," an adequately edgy rocker, is equally as biting in its own skin, setting up a motif that follows the album through its end. "Billy Chic," a stylish, layered guitar piece that steals a Feelies riff and runs it through a decade's worth of distortion follows, and for the remainder of the album, sparse, plodding paeans are matched evenly against gristly, post- modern fuzzfests.

In more the nature of a theme than a concept album, all of the album's tracks manage to exude a certain Cold Light of Morning, though some succeed in exposing more than others. The concept of the pedestrian "Fuck It Up" is far better realized on what might be the album's finest tune, "Stooge," a snarling, feedback enhanced affair that deteriorates delightfully into Laurence Ash's pounding drums pacing Ted Milton's screaming sax (a better A&R; man would have cut the former). Similarly, the album's ballads blend together namelessly until "God Will Punish the Pervert Preacher" comes along. "You wake up Sunday morning/ Young boy in your bed/ Jesus and the Devil/ Doing business in your head," choirgirl backing vocals gone bad, and those layered guitars-- there's no confusing this one with anything else. The slice of gospel soul, "Steal Away," picks up the pieces amicably, but the damage has already been done.

On the strength of the album's most effective tracks ("Killer Blow," "Stooge," and "Preacher") alone, Dream City Film Club's In the Cold Light of Morning is the occasional gem for which we all delve into the garbage heap. That Sheehy is still dusting the final remains of the same from his work is of little consequence here. The album is a scarily potent effort that provides a jolt to preconceptions all too often proved right.

-Neil Lieberman