Pitchfork

1. Learn to play the drums with a modicum of proficiency.

2. Drum for a few local bands for a while before making the jump to Filter, the radio-friendly also-ran in the industrial rock scene.

3. After that gig reaches a dead end, become the stand-in drummer for the Smashing Pumpkins while Jimmy Chamberlin detoxes in a down-and-out L.A. rehab center.

4. Make sure that Billy Corgan agrees, under the terms of the temp job, to use his industry clout to secure a future musical endeavor of your choosing.

5. Following the heroic return of the Pumpkins' original drummer, return to your hometown and dig up a few members from one of your old local bands and start a new one. This savvy move should help give you that much-needed "street cred." (These former bandmates should be dying for you to recruit them, given your newfound music-biz friends. They won't even remember that you ditched them for Filter.)

6. Bang out a few original songs and play a few gigs at various local venues. This serves the purpose of cementing both band chemistry, and, of course, the all-important "cred" factor.

7. Cash in on your Pumpkins connection by signing to a major label.

8. Fly to London to work with a hotshot producer on your band's album. (Hey, you get a free trip to London.)

9. Circulate a story about an inter-band skirmish during the recording process. This is just the kind of press you want. It makes your band seem dangerous and cool.

10. Let the label withhold the release of your album for a year. Then, have them drop it on the unsuspecting public with little or no promotional support.

11. Your record will likely go on to sell several thousand copies, most of which will wind up in used CD stores around the nation.

12. Repeat steps 7-11 until you can afford a down payment on that $60,000 retirement home in Fort Lauderdale.

Some things just don't make any sense. The movie "Like Father, Like Son," starring Dudley Moore and Kirk Cameron, is a prime example of the horrendous results that can occur when you're unfettered by the chains of logic. And then there's the self-titled debut by Cupcakes. Having played only a handful of gigs in their hometown of Chicago, they were signed-- following a moderate bidding war on the strength of a demo-- to big league slugger Dreamworks. Riding the wave of hype and hope, they entered a London studio in the spring of 1999 for three months to hammer out the album, recruiting the famed Blur producer Stephen Street to record to album.

And then, nothing. Two months, four months, eight months. The few people who cared got tired of waiting. Expectations dissipated. Lives were taken off hold. Baited breaths were exhaled. The Cupcakes were feared yet another casualty of a major label, swallowed whole and spit out. Then, a year later, it appears with no warning or press, as if Dreamworks were embarrassed to call it their own. As they should be.

Perhaps the only thing more exceedingly bizarre than the circumstances surrounding Cupcakes is that the record was released at all. If you're willing to sit on such a horrifically mediocre chunk of alt-schlock for one year, why not just wash your hands of the matter and toss the tapes wherever Steven Spielberg keeps the master reel of "Hook?" The situation is particularly baffling when one considers how nicely the album balances Eve 6-caliber absurdity with lyrics that, we think, were intended to be serious. (If it turns out these guys were kidding, forgive us our trespasses; they're comic geniuses.)

The band's sound comes courtesy of the Smashing Pumpkins, Spacehog, and Cheap Trick; beneath these rather obvious influences are strains of the Cars, Queen, and even a few kernels of undigested Blur and Radiohead. When these disparate influences coalesce, the results are about as interesting as a rock. "Vidiots" provides a perfect paradigm of their projectile sound. Beginning with new wave keyboards and a NIN-inspired drumbeat, it quickly changes gears with the addition of an 80's stadium-sized guitar riff that David Coverdale wouldn't even touch with someone else's pole. "High Speed Cakes in the Hole" follows an equally unpredictable sonic path to failure, flirting with U2 proportions before breaking apart just prior to climax.

Credit for the unusual arrangements goes to Greg Suran (of Machines of Loving Grace "fame")-- he's responsible for all the music, with the exception of two tracks. Never resorting to cheap guitar thrills in misguided soloing or other self-indulgences, Suran keeps the song structures boring and the payoffs subtle, as expected. And vocalist Preston Graves sounds like he's hopped the train to Billie Joe Armstrong's house, affecting a British accent at every turn. At his best, he pulls off some intriguing vocal gymnastics. At his worst-- which is most of the time-- he punctures eardrums like needle-nose pliers.

Fortunately, this disc is unlikely to satisfy anyone. Too eccentric for mainstream consumption and too sellout for indie kids, it seems improbable that the Cupcakes will find their niche. Ah, well. No one's listening either way.