The Mars Volta's piss-soaked indulgence often pushes critics to similarly bombastic, mouth-foaming performances. It's understandable. The boys have created an oeuvre that, while technically adventurous, is more or less a hodgepodge of ADD prog trope noodles. That said, I carefully cross my heart at the news of each release, hoping that approaching these guys with an open mind will unearth the pleasures that make bong-toting college boys and Total Guitar subscribers purr. But hard as I tried (again), Amputechture tested, bent, and eventually broke me: Synths lap, strings weep soppingly, ham-fisted fingers tap, time signatures flash, and the amphetamine Beat poetry...is amphetamine Beat poetry.

Now, I dig indulgence when it's done well (see: Finnegans Wake, that skinny guy who wins all the hot-dog eating contests), and what got me through multiple listens to Frances the Mute was the album's overall ludicrousness, that weirdo King Crimson corn-dogging. I enjoyed some of the vocal lines, and it had an intriguing concept-- characters flesh-out from found objects-- but the endless boogie eventually flatlined. It wasn't good rock music, but it was fun in a beer-helmet sorta way. But unless you do keg stands for a living, party tricks usually only work once. To the band's credit, at least they didn't aim for another classic-rock crapper like Frances's "The Widow"-- if your raison d'être is sitcom-length epics, why plop in that one radio-ready single?

Here, the closest the Mars Volta come to a stadium-sized anthem is opener "Vicarious Atonement", in which slow-drip Led Zeppelin histrionics and drama-queen guitar wanks waddle over space ambiance, modem sounds, piano swirls, and free-jazzercise horns. The effect? Climbing a mountain with a noodling Sam Ash balladeer. (Actually, it's probably John Frusciante, who plays guitar on just about every track here.) Of course, the 7+ minute "Been Caught Stealin'"-on-DXM shower ballad could've been trimmed by three minutes, but that's not a bad percentage for these guys.

As is illustrated by the 17-minute "Tetragrammaton". The move from "Vicarious Atonement"'s saxophone bleats and Cedric Bixler-Zavala's mutant whine to the hyperspeed Dream Theater schlep is nice enough: The track's first few minutes show promise, but before long it's veered off into unlistenable, meth-addled Rich Little territory. "Tetragrammaton", of course, is the Hebrew name for God, but seriously, there's no reason to try to squeeze the entire dude into one track. How many scales can a person take? Leave the room, come back, go to sleep, take a walk: They're still at it.

This isn't to say Amputechture is without redemption: "Vermicide" has a couple mellow and pretty guitar parts; actually, though, that's snuffed by the word "sacrosanct," a ricocheting vocal effect, and late-period funk spunk. Heady hand drums, acoustic guitar flumes, and drifty gleams at "Asilos Magdalena"'s opening are promising, but a quivering Cedric gets weepy on us. My guess: Mary Magdalene's pissed at Jesus for not taking her with him. Then I thought of Devendra Banhart for a second, before wiping off my windshield. The religious imagery's knee-deep in each track: "Viscera Eyes" rages about "a crown of maggots" and "the border we're watching." Somewhere Fred Durst nods along with a copy of The Dharma Bums in his back pocket.

The demonizing, idol-worshipping "Day of the Baphomets" opens with and sustains the most energy, but then comes a number of unnecessary shifts, including fun-house vocal effects and wavy gravy Lynchian midget sounds. The song features a legitimately kinetic vocal turn-- "Poachers in your home/ Poachers in your home"-- that echoes Nation of Ulysses, but my finger's still off a few inches.

None of this is surprsing: It's the Mars Volta's third proper album and a blizzard of onanism is expected-- to quite a few people, it'll be highly anticipated. Hell, it even had me interested: This is ex-At the Drive In bassist Paul Hinojos' first studio stint with the band after he started touring with them in 2005. Maybe he'd turn back the clock and force his comrades to look in the mirror and see how far they've strayed off course? Sadly not. Which reminds me: Bixler-Zavala and Volta keyboardist Ikey Owens guest on Mastodon's new Blood Mountain album. Maybe they'll brainwash Atlanta's finest metal band into this kinda bullshit so the world can celebrate the crushing loss of two great bands together.