(RCA)

I popped in the latest Black Rebel Motorcycle Club CD knowing only two things about the band: It has garnered a reputation as some sort of hard rock phenom, and its name is dripping with testosterone. With only that to go on, I expected the trio’s fourth record, Baby 81, to be a “real” rock album, a swaggering, sexy, take-no-prisoners affair, like the Doors before Jim Morrison got fat, or Aerosmith before they stopped shooting heroin. And this is exactly what BRMC is going for on many of these tunes. Unfortunately, they’re about as real as the Real World-Road Rules Challenge. The opening track, “Took Out A Loan,” features a slinky blues riff that could feasibly support some classic Lizard King moans or Plant-ian screams. But instead of giving the track the raw, live ambience it deserves, the band polishes the living hell out of it. When they bust out the line “I took out a loan on my empty heart,” it sounds ready made for a youth-focused bank commercial. It doesn’t get any less slick from there. “Berlin” is a deflated attempt at Stooges-era punk complete with a throwaway riff, head-scratchingly bad lyrics (i.e. “What happened to the revolution?”) and libido-less “uhs” from the lead singer. The first single, “Weapon Of Choice,” sounds like the Foo Fighters at their worst and the acoustic number “666 Conducer” is, well, a song with the title “666 Conducer.”

But for all of its failings, Baby 81 ain’t all bad. There’s one moment that explains all the hype surrounding the band’s previous albums (as well as Noel Gallagher’s claim that BRMC was his “favorite new band”). The track “Window” features a simple, bouncing piano vamp and a floating falsetto melody. It’s a dark, richly layered pop tune, and the only song on the album to benefit from the glossy, arena rock production that mars the rest of the disc. “Window” shows that Baby 81 isn’t the work of a talentless band: It’s the sound of one falling flat on its face, but not because it can’t write a decent riff. On this album, BRMC is trying to appease Zeppelin junkies, the indie crowd and the easily impressed Daughtry faithful, all at the same time. If they want to do justice to their Marlon Brando-inspired, machismo-soaked name, it’s probably best that they stop producing their own records, and start getting real.