The indie band's second album is smoother and more polished than their first, but it's low on originality and ambition.
Not to be confused with Vampire Weekend, or The Weeknd, the Brooklyn-based indie rockers Weekend were not exactly struck by a lightning bolt of inspiration when they chose their generic moniker.
The sound they make is similarly low on originality or ambition. The band's agreeably punchy debut album Sports earned positive reviews three years ago, its shuddering waves of molten guitar distortion clearly indebted to noise-rock innovators such as My Bloody Valentine.
This second album is smoother and more polished, with washes of echo and floaty vocals reminiscent of the shoegazing genre from Britain 20 years ago. Stand-out tracks such as Mirror and Just Drive are full of vaguely defined anguish, their murky mumbles buried under crashing waves of turbo-jangling melody.
All pleasant enough, but there is frankly no reason to waste your time listening to lightweight third-generation copies like this rather than immeasurably superior albums by The Cure, Cocteau Twins and other pioneers in this moody dream-rock field.