Ava Luna – Infinite House
There's a thin line between having catholic tastes and a predilection for dicking about. You say eclectic, I say make your fucking mind up. Certain chin strokers of the hipster blogosphere love Ava Luna, but then they would. Ever more, as the weight of our beards and the demands of our Portlandia box sets leave us ever further from knowing who we are and where we’ve come from, we laud the ludicrous just in case. Infinite House, the Brooklyn 'nervous soul' (puh-lease) collective's third album, cares little for identity as it goes genre-hopping like an over-indulged child.
From the spoken word Steve Polyester to the clipped funk of Company (think Jamiroquai rather than Chic), Infinite House dispenses with integrity, song craft, and most importantly soul. By the time Black Dog and Billz arrive – both baffling, horrible guitar workouts – the game's up. Noodling on this scale should really attract a custodial sentence. [Gary Kaill]