Pitchfork

I'm guessing that imported Mexican weed just isn't as potent these days because, truthfully, Austin, Texas hasn't produced a great psychedelic band since the 13th Floor Elevators. And of course, Roky Erickson and crew were actually from Houston. I suppose, though, as long as Austin Shoetop Appreciation Society pedal-pushers Sixteen Deluxe retain their substantial local fanbase, throw huge, schmoozy CD release parties and open for bands like Luna, they'll probably continue manufacturing the same diluted form of acid-rock we find on their latest piece of plastic, Vision Take Me, Make Me, Never Forsake Me. Jesus, what kind of tripendicular power-whippet inspired that nouveau-hippie bullshit title?

Being a former resident of Austin myself, I bore witness to the formative Sixteen Deluxe days way back in early 1995. I recall a certain Sixteen Deluxe-related aphorism scrawled on a bathroom stall at a local alterna-dump: "Take away Sixteen Deluxe's pedals and watch them suck." This kernel of urinal wisdom still holds true, but sadly, not even their special effects hold interest anymore.

Sixteen Deluxe once were the loudest, noisiest hombres in A-town. Blatantly ripping off My Bloody Valentine's basic ethos, they indulged in Tinnitus- inducing volumes and thick layers of stomp-box noise blanketing. Chris Smith and Carrie Clark played ape-simple guitar figures through a never-ending network of gadgets that would confuse even the Nuno Bettencourt clones at Sam Ash. They had an amusing gimmick going long enough for the local stoner press corps to jerk themselves silly in anticipation of a major label signing, which soon happened-- when corporate vampire Warner Brothers showed up in Austin to suck hipster blood.

And although their 1995 debut, Backfeedmagnetbabe, was promising, only mad geniuses like Kevin Shields, Medicine's Brad Laner, and Mercury Rev's David Baker have been able to harness this sort of loud, swirling MBV-like sonic chaos and effectively recreate it on a studio album. On Vision Take Me, Sixteen Deluxe, realizing they can no longer advance their overall sound by merely adding more effects pedals, occasionally shave off some surplus noise-guitar. And as soon as the wall-of-noise force field slackens, these songs' shaky twee-pop centers are instantly detectable.

Carrie Clark's incense-and-peppermint lyrics are all too audible, and they certainly don't benefit from her flat, bored vocal delivery. The opener, "To Find What's Waitin For," could be Kim Wilde's "Kids in America" meets David Bowie's "Heroes" if either of those songs were about going to Las Vegas on a whim. Crazy! "Custom Cuts and Signature Sounds" comes off like a bad Tarnation outtake, featuring Clark's tired pro-slacker sentiments about nasty hangovers. And "The King Fisher" is nothing but rinky-dink Grateful Dead-end neo-psychedelia.

Conversely, "The Falling Last Season" may be the most original and melodic song they've written yet. Then, meet possibly the worst song they've ever penned, "Hazmatz." Just marvel at this song's super-ultra-deluxe chorus: "In the city we have the capacity.../ To even outshine the sun." It's the worst sort of mind-numbingly repetitive '80s new wave dressed up in showy effects, with a heavily-treated dumb-note guitar riff as the focal point.

And hey, while I'm being an unfair prick, let's diss the band's new drummer. The poor guy's got all the finesse of a Korg ES-1 and the creativity of a stop sign. He constantly mistakes stiff, lifeless pounding for Charlie Watts-like minimalist restraint. Not to mention the drums themselves are simply turned up too damn loud in the mix.

Unfortunately, Sixteen Deluxe has become a solidly second-rate group making a good living, but no longer making good records. Their equally mediocre and once- promising neighbors, Starfish, Pork, Ed Hall, Sincola, and the Furry Things couldn't make a decent album, either, but at least they're probably back to selling bad acid and manning the register at a few of Austin's many convenience stores. Such are the breaks, however, when you're nurtured by a perennially overrated music scene. I'm talking about Austin, a city where the bands outnumber the cockroaches, where most people are too lazy to enjoy music, and where precious attitudes and gratuitous hype mix with pot smoke to create an ominous paisley- patterned haze enveloping the city's HO-scale skyline.

With Bedhead a fond memory, Austin is now a two-band town: And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead, and Spoon. And if this new effort is any indication, Texas' answer to the Strawberry Alarm Clock could stand to stop flogging their dead horse. How about going back to school, guys? Or hey, maybe Britt Daniel needs roadies?