Pontiak have digested their musical influences but like so many bands before them have regurgitated them forth moreorless fully formed, instead of chewing them over and bringing out the flavours.
Because flavours are what make or break a band - get it right and success is round the corner, or get it wrong and fade away, perhaps to be forgotten or unearthed in decades time as a hidden gem - reclaimed as precursor to the next big thing.
But when you're a band feeding on the same old piece of cardboard that most of the '70s and '80s hard rock haircuts sicked up for the equally mundane and plodding '90s grunge whimps, it can be safely said that all the flavour is well and truly gone. Where will you get as a band if you bring nothing new to the plate?
Pontiak are well rehearsed - they nail those Jimmy Page riffs, ape Doors-style organ now and then, ebb and flow like Pearl Jam, but they rock so, well, so inanely slowly that Jim Morrison today would probably be livelier and each headbang feels like a five month coma - and even then, what would the food being pumped into your stomach through a plastic tube taste like? Bloody cardboard.