I do consider myself a Robyn Hitchcock [ tickets ] fan. However, when the guy misses the mark, he's proven himself to be reliably annoying. And this time out--coasting blindfolded on old, wheezing-tired ideas--he's made an absolute spectacle of himself missing the mark.

It's pretty simple: subtract songcraft from his formula, and you're left with recycled beds of chiming Byrdsy jangle buoying a British eccentric who spouts volleys of weirdo lyrical blather like a schizophrenic street person. It's all so narcoleptically boring I actually fell asleep three times attempting to complete that last sentence.

Kicking off the proceedings like a limp handshake at the world's lamest cocktail party, "What You Is" comes off like an attempt to approximate a Hitchcock-style Vegas Revue, replete with faceless background singers and a horn section.

"Your Head Here" is a geeky, "Subterranean Homesick Blues" talk-sing pastiche padded out with ill-advised, faux-trippy chorus voices, all of which flounders disinterestedly atop a homogenized Peter Buck guitar line.

"Saturday Groovers" is the kind of serviceable pop rave-up that would've lucked out finding a place on a b-side back in Hitchcock's heyday.

Alas, there's only one bona fide classic on the record: "I'm Falling." And "Up To Our Nex" is decent. Otherwise, don't even bother. This is his worst work of the last decade--especially disappointing coming after "Ole! Tarantula," which was hands-down his best in recent memory. Conversely, if "Goodnight Oslo" was any less distinctive, it practically wouldn't even exist.