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Having already surveyed Pete Dale's latest Milky Wimpshake record this week, it seems the warmer turn in the weather has come at the perfect time, coinciding as it does with two releases by bands named to suggest fields full of ripening strawberries and cool, long drinks in the shade.

But whereas the Milky Wimpshake album was a messy gem that proved again that Dale has a little of the Daniel Johnston and a little of the Jeffrey Lewis about him, Jonas Stein of Turbo Fruits inhabits the same head space as the Kooks - if I'm being kind - or Miles Kane, if I'm not. Produced by the Black Keys' Patrick Carney, No Control follows the smoothed out, tepid imprint that El Camino introduced for his own band, minus the occasionally inspired piece of songwriting.

With that album, the Black Keys took a turn towards the sheen (and sales) of Kings of Leon, and the musician-turned-producer imports that texture wholesale, overseeing a bleached-clean mix that draws unwelcome attention to the deficit of originality on show. Songs arrive and depart without leaving much of an impression.

Lyrics have never been Stein's strong suit, and on No Control he delivers some blindingly trite one-twos. "You've got all of these rules / I want to bend them"; "I'm trying to find me something new / I don't know what I should do." Tellingly, the phrase "I don't know" seems to be repeated quite regularly throughout, possibly suggesting that Jonas allowed his inner monologue direct access to his motor functions while penning the lyrics. It's that kind of album.

Songs revolve around two themes; girl/boyfriend is upset and Jonas is confused or; girl/boyfriend is great and Jonas wants them to stay that way. His delivery is akin to the male guitarist/vocalist from Roxette, which is odd considering that Per Gessle sings in English with a Swedish twang. This sense of dislocation is apparent throughout, with no distinguishing geographic or sociological features provided throughout. With a little more local colour, or even some semblance of dirt or scratchiness, the shallowness on show might be forgivable.

'The Way I Want You' is probably the most memorable track on an unmemorable collection. The overwhelming feeling is of weariness: weariness of lyrics, weariness of performance, weariness of spirit. There's no spark, no anchor to place anything in any recognisable context. It's like a franchised rock record, and not even in a U2, you-can-do-better-than-this kind of way.

Be Your Own Pet had a nasty side to them. They may never have quite reached full-blown cult status, but their name carries some weight because they were at the very least inimitable - they were their own thing. Turbo Fruits feel weightless, airless. The smooth production only makes the disappointing lack of clarity all the more unfortunate. I don't know who or what this album is for.

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