The Coventry trio's fourth album is sometimes ham-fisted, but always heartfelt
[a]Nojahoda[/a] believe there should be no boundaries in music. They're right. There should be [I]barricades[/I]....
We've heard these silly voices and sample & western skits before - they once were Ween's and they ceased being cute circa 1993. What's slightly newer, in amongst the competent shoutcore you suspect London-based Nojahoda call home, is the flagrant Beck-pillaging of songs like 'Pinata', and the Frankie Goes To Bollywood lunacy that is 'Nojahoda'. Both songs boast slick tech manoeuvres and dazzling studio trickery - evidence, if it were needed, that there are skills in the area, even if they are currently being used for evil. They are only young, you reason. And anyway, this mess is all the Chili Peppers' fault.
Despite Nojahoda's love affair with every style on the dial, one ingredient has fled this record, ashamed at the overwrought schmaltz of ballads like 'Dog' or 'Teach Me How To Fly': any real soul. They can't get a witness, and neither should you.
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