The Dandy Warhols

First, the good news: The Dandy Warhols have had their fling with disposable synth-pop, rediscovered the Velvet Underground and secured cult status from the rockumentary Dig! for not being assholes quite on par with the “genius” asshole in the Brian Jonestown Massacre. On the downside, Portland’s pleasure-seeking scamps banked enough from cell-phone endorsements, a tour with David Bowie and an embarrassing pre-Emmy appearance with Joan Rivers to be as indulgent as Little Lord Fauntleroy in a candy factory. The result? A half-baked batch of experimental noodling, droning organs, fuzzbox endurance, intermittently catchy brass and endlessly contrived cool — all screaming for an editor. Deserving neither accolades as a brilliant, conceptual mock opus nor Rolling Stone‘s one-star bitch-slap, the sprawling Odditorium is just another unfocused, long-winded space-jam tribute to heroin chic — big, fat surprise. It deserves distinction, however, for having the unfunniest introduction ever (a self-conscious and stupid band summary from A&E pitchman Bill Kurtis), which launches this sinking ship into willful oblivion. Bang a vein, lover.