Tramp

We all strive for success ― few realize what a massive vortex the attainment of that dream can actually be though. If they haven't figured it out before, Scandinavian rockers Tramp should be on that path of sad discovery via Indigo. While there's nothing predominantly wrong with the album's loose rock'n'roll, blending fuzzy, Hendrix-esque psychedelics with more primal, pelvic essences, neither is there much to pull it out of the swamp of mediocrity. Everything here is catchy and upbeat, but also painfully obvious and predictable. It's as if the ashes of Bad Afro records and their obsession with modern bands pilfering '60s garage rock has come back to haunt us. The worst part though is that this outfit are saddled with the baggage of their members' various pasts, thereby instigating immediate comparisons and confusion. Pulling members from the likes of the Turpentines, Henry Fiat's Open Sore, Captain Murphy and the Hellacopters leaves us wondering how dudes from such great bands could be so aggravatingly line toeing.