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.
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.
