The Family Rain is a trio of brothers playing updated 'classic rock', in the finest traditions of the best British music of the last oh shut up.

The Family Rain are a trio of brothers peddling the type of uninspiring muck people have been playing in pubs across Britain for a million Saturday nights. You know the sort - loud, ruddy, flicking a wink at the local shopkeeper's daughter who they intend to deflower before disappearing off back to their jobs in breweries and ironmongers, waiting for the moment they can relive the dream at our expense once again next weekend.

Under The Volcano is pub rock at its most mediocre. It has taken three listens to this album to come up with that sentence, because on each attempt I have had further inspiration drained out of me and I keep picturing myself at the urinal hoping my piss will last the whole set.

One of the tracks that gets The Family Rain noticed in certain critical circles is called 'Trust Me...I'm A Genius'. It's the type of song that makes you question the very worth of ears, and whether some people have any right to use them; it is one of the most turgid, uninventive songs on the album, which is a remarkable feat in itself. It has little more to hold it together than singer Will Walter yelling over it like a nasty little toddler demanding the fireman's hat at play group.

The singer is one of the biggest problems with the record. Has there ever been a voice so desperate to howl in another age? If Marc Bolan's mum walked down the street without her glasses, just a few bars from Will Walter would have her hugging him elatedly like the son she thought she'd lost. And while this voice may work on a record with a bit of life behind it, like the best of T Rex's output, dropping in onto 'Under The Volcano' makes the music seem even more boring, which boggles the mind.

It's important to note that, and believe me I'm as surprised as you are, there is one genuinely half-decent song on this record. 'Binocular' isn't any more inventive than anything else here, but the beat's great and it's pretty catchy, and the Bolan drawl isn't as annoying as elsewhere. It's like finding a whole, edible potato in a giant field of dung. And then it's wrecked by the lyrics "I'm always on watch but never on time," which makes about as much sense as "I've got soul but I'm not a soldier" and leaves me just as cold.

I steadfastly refuse to believe that this is the type of record we should be forced to accept in 2014. We've come too far and heard too many chancers peddling false new dawns - some see a mirage where others see an Oasis - to be prepared to swallow this shite. It's a record with so little worth it makes me too tired to make a pun about the band's name and the dull, watery despair they inspire. Yes, that bad.