Back when I was still at university and had time to sit in the sun mildly zonked of a Thursday afternoon, the blissful analogue stylings of the Bees where a pleasant enough thing to have on the background. Evoking an age I was born twenty years too late to experience and which my father had cheerfully informed me "wasn't really much to write home about," West Coast psychedelia only mildly appealed to me. As far as I was concerned, I had the Beatles just across the river from Birkenhead if I needed them, and a tape of Trout Mask Replica if I wanted to seem cool in front of the sort of student who likes fuggy, unambitious guitar music.

Halasan Bazar sit themselves down squarely on the front porch of mono guitar-driven 'psych'. Almost identical in form to Woods' debut, and drawing heavily from Violent Femmes (especially on the slack-jawed 'Live Without Love') Space Junk is pleasant enough without being arch, and punchy enough without being exciting. Tambourines are liberally applied to almost every track. It's that kind of an album.

Despite describing themselves as 'experimental psych pop', there is nothing vaguely akin to a musical experiment here, unless I misread the email and this is a re-issue from 1963. Neither is there much akin to psych. The word psychedelic is chucked at almost every act that uses Instagram for their promo shots, and has become a pretty colourless spectacle in consequence (pun intended). For every Flaming Lips, there are a dozen Halasan Bazar's.

Moments of beauty are as rarely glimpsed as standing stones. It's as if the monumental realisation that you can produce your album to sound like it was mixed fifty years ago is enough to turn musicians' brains into mildewed corduroy. In place of drive, energy, or even a smarmy sense of your own ability with a harmony (see Ariel Pink), the artist tries to evoke a summer afternoon that dozens of other artists all seem to be dreaming up at the same time. Like the entire, stoned population of a Sunday early evening campsite at a second rate festival instantaneously materialised their perfect album.

'Am I Blind' is a momentary shudder back into the early noughties Liverpool Bandwagon scene, jangling guitars and organ and wandering bass that wants to be the Byrds but ends up more in the region of the Bandits. 'Stay' is a frolicking, Basement Tapes-style slice of 68 Dylan and The Band, 'The Light of My Day' offers a slither of Bright Eyes-esque slacker pomp without the occasional lyric of real insight. The melody is pretty, the delivery is charming, the results will appeal to someone.

But not me. I hate to bang on about production, but will someone please go and pour cider into every remaining analogue desk in the Western hemisphere? Occasionally what comes out sounds nice, and there is undoubtedly artistic merit in creating rules, and what you might call inspirational restriction as a form of self-discipline. The knock-on effect, however, is too often the kind of leaden, faux-original backsliding that is on offer here.