The last of B*Witched's four quartets, 'Blame It On The Weatheman' continues down the 'To You I Belong' path marked 'more mature sound' by pruning back the bubblegum pop joie de vivre and turning up the acoustic sincerity - honestly, it's like the first four years of The Beatles played out over three singles. Well not quite; 'Blame It On The Weatheman' is undoubtedly a more grown up offering, but it's one that's hamstrung by sounding akin to an early cut of Natalie Imbruglia's 'Torn' crossed with a half finished demo of a Cranberries B side.Which wouldn't necessarily be a disaster in itself (after all, some of my favourite songs sound like half finished demos), but with such little meat on display then the bones are forced to stand by themselves. And unfortunately, the neo Beefheartian title is about as interesting as 'Blame It On The Weatheman' ever gets. As predictably drab and rote driven as anything else in their catalogue, that 'needs a lick of paint' aura adds not so much a layer of charm as a feeling that nobody can really be arsed anymore. Nobody except for Edele Lynch who, bless her, tries her best to inject a shot of emotion to lift it out of the doldrums, but the hackneyed clichés of the lyric ("Standing on the shore, calling out your name") don't give an inch and, with the music taking a back seat, her rancid croak is brutally exposed and singularly fails to spin this straw into decent animal feed, let alone gold.
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