While fellow New Yorkers Interpol wrestle similar sonic demons with grace and profundity, Calla’s third album favours artifice over aptitude, every dark, meandering art-rock dirge bulging with superfluous effects and studiously ambiguous lyrics. Only “Pete The Killer” impresses, largely because its bittersweet, Sundays-style guitars see the trio temporarily eschew their glum self-importance for the sweet chime of pomp-free art-pop.
Ultimately, Calla lack the melodic muscle and conviction sufficient to suggest they’re anything more than the emperor’s new worry beads.
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