If, like me, you have begun to suspect that the scope of indy rock seems to be narrowing down to "twee, folksy, guitar-pop" in much the same way that "punk" was pared down over time to mean "three-chord Ramones-esque power-pop," then consider Matthew and the Judes debut E.P. to be exhibit A. The band supplements the traditional guitar-bass-drums arsenal with copious amounts of trumpet, violin, and keyboard artillery but still manages to fight a losing battle against mediocrity. The interplay between these other instruments-- particularly the trumpet-- and the acoustic guitar manages to recall artists like John Brion and Neutral Milk Hotel without really adding anything significant to the discussion.

Perhaps the weakest link in this chain is the eponymous front-man Matthew. His singing voice is pleasant, sure, but isn't really distinctive enough to put him above the host of gentle, bearded front-men wearing their hearts on the sleeves of their flannel sweaters. And then there's the lyrics. . . Okay, here's the thing, in a band like this, lyrics are pretty important. The people who buy these records are actually listening to them, you see. So if you're going to try your hand at a precious little indy record like this, you'd damn well better have something of note to say. That's the biggest failure of Matthew and the Judes; across the six songs that make up this E.P., I can't find a single thought or feeling that hasn't been expressed a thousand times before, and not infrequently in a more novel or interesting fashion. Leave lines like "Baby we've gone too far" and "Don't put me on the shelf/ Cause it's not worth it/ It's what I tell myself" to the jokers in the mainstream. I thought indy rock was supposed to be a wellspring of fresh observations and underrepresented viewpoints.

And it's a shame, too, because at odd moments, the music can actually be quite beautiful. The album opener "Waves" is gorgeous instrumental bookended by two test-pattern verse-chorus blocks. "And Bye Bye" starts out as a solid jazz waltz, but verses fail to strike a spark. "The Gardener," for all its jaunty, Olde Tyme charm, doesn't rise above the level of amusing novelty. I could go on and on. "Where on Earth?," as a whole, plays like a series of missed opportunities, each entry a bead strung along a coil of white noise that, in a different, better world, might have been a really good song.