Hotel In Saigon, by Bright Midnight

My quandary: heightened expectations.
These things are buggers to the senses, clouding common sense with the idiocy of “hope”, and bolstering one's own cynicism when they bear bitter fruit.
If the hype surrounding a new band intends to cause a stir half the size of 9-11, let's look at the list of influences as Ground Zero.
I suppose it speaks to the Velvet Underground's persistent influence over the decades that bands who so obviously take shreds of Reed's rags (conveniently ignoring Cale's idiosyncrasy so much of the time) can woo the NME's panties off like cheap wine Every. Damn. Time.

And who's not a culprit there? Bowie famously spun all of Lou's faggier tendencies into gold; the Jesus and Mary Chain and Sonic Youth cribbed White Light/White Heat's nails on chalkboard temperament and called it art (which is quite Warhol-esque in itself, ironically); and dare we not forget the Strokes, would be heirs to that New York Kingdom, and Bright Midnight's Golden Calf. Not to imply worship on their part, since after all, in Bizarro Land, Oasis were true originals.

And since I've brought up the Gallagher Brothers in my obtuse ramblings, “Infant Days” is to Strokes' “Last Nite” what Oasis's “Little James” was to “Hey Jude.”
To their credit, “Hotel In Saigon” at least doesn't sound like something Julian Casablancas opted out of the Room On Fire sessions.
Lyrics invoke the elements for poetic effect (more on this in a minute), a jazzy break after the second chorus a la Krieger, the bass-heavy, bluesy stomp – enough to appear as an attempt for the Doors' enigmatic sound, but the end result is more than a little reminiscent of latter-day Chili Peppers. Post-Californication-type shit. When the George Clinton-inspired jamming gave way to middle-aged Kiss FM tendencies.

Here, the post-punk-inspired staccato guitar lines give way to what sounds like an unsigned ska band trying to swagger like Page – melodic garage pop, I can dig, cos Bright Midnight may skirt on plagiarism, but they at least steal effectively. But they're about as convincing as R.E.M are with distortion.

I will give the rhythm section their due, though; the drummer makes a groove sound easy - he's a tad late with the cymbals on occasion, but he switches to double time at the drop of a hat, further shoving that loose, jamming aesthetic down the listeners' respective throats.
Fact is, the whole unit sounds fairly tight, and that's an element that makes or breaks four-on-the-floor moments like these.
Herein lies the issue: there's nothing deep or mysterious about the city. Morrison got a pass as a Kerouac/Ginsberg acolyte because he profited from the right imagery; he thumbed his way across the desert, dropped too much acid and made too much uncomfortable eye contact with the iguanas along the way. By the time he got to Venice, something as simple as wearing leather pants was an ironic metaphorical statement that made the Soho crowds cock their heads to the side thoughtfully; “How post modern,” they thought as he reaped the benefits of backstage trim and his copy of Aldous Huxley gathered dust.
I can tell the frontman, with his vague yet purposeful visuals and vocals-via-diaphragm, wants to be abstract, and, dare I say, shamanic in presentation. And there's nothing wrong with wanting hot chicks to think you're deep. But a lyricist and vocalist with an indirect approach requires a sound that is just as indirect. This sound is very much direct, even for its few left-field touches and grasp of dynamics.

And that said, it's still the little things that make the big differences. For example, ending with that jazz break at 3:37 instead of refraining the main riff was the choice you should have made (I know it crossed one of your minds)! That's one of those subtleties that separates the MOR, the overeager, and the just plain hip. The third ones play to strengths, and surprise every now and then. Everyone else... just kinda dashes heightened expectations. Like people who use the Velvets as a jump-off point... Strokes, for example. :