I like Isis too, but *Shels needs to relax.  Sure its easy to cop a riff here, some growls there, because lets face it. . .fuckin’ Oceanic, man.  Isis was the cool older dude growing up that always bought kids beer or skipped school and smoked pot, while *Shels ran after them yelling “Wait up!”  It’s not really a fair comparison between the two bands, ultimately these guys are wasting my time and their time.  The whole shtick reeks of false motives, bringing to mind slackers in a basement bragging, “Naw man I can totally play that breakdown better,” or “Lets add more acoustic interludes!”  Give me a break.  Luckily Sea of the Dying Dhow is mind-numbing enough to wave things like integrity, identity, originality; you won’t even notice its playing for the most part.  Just joshin’, what this album needs is more pseudo-harmonious and unnecessary hippie guitar plucking.  Lets break it down.

Named after an Arab ship, …Dying Dhow is chock full of Indian harmonies, with mandolins and other acoustics popping up during interludes.  “Indian” spotlights pumped reverb alongside druggie-paced strings creating a drifting vocal effect. Its all very Zen, tracks falter and flounder between movements with sparse acoustic strumming bridging the transition.  “Conference of the Birds”—either named after a Persian novel or an Om album, in which case these guys are alright in my book—features the albums best moment: erupting trumpets lead way to a satisfying crescendo of spacey guitar wails, a brief, shimmering chunk of gold amidst a crap sundae.  It’s a pity such an enjoyable moment is sandwiched between five minutes of banal riffs and stock screams closing out the track.  Poor decisions plague the album: finger snaps—never a good idea.

 “Water” is a saccharine sweet melody that might as well be on a Hot Topic mixtape, featuring emo epiphanies like “I’m alone in this world / And I’m waiting for it all to mend / It reminds me of all the things I used to have.”  Sea of the Dying Dow is a veritable Scattegories of cringe-inducing moments: “In Dead Palm Fields” features the suggestion of “Posion[ing] ourselves,” joining the abundant collection of poor lyrics; the title track grows a pair mid-song, switching from another guitar plucking ambient wankfest to a cheesy metalcore breakdown.  A small aside, this may be the worst drumming ever recorded, this guy makes Pelican's drummer look like John Bonham.  Tempo-less and sloppy, at least he won’t be called out if he sticks with *Shels.  The three songs over eight minutes, “Conference” “Dead Palm” and “White Umbrella Part 2,” house the best moments on the album so if you feel a compelling urge to ignore me, start here.  Otherwise, lets all listen to Om.

–James Anaipakos