The generic sound of this record is straight from a common Brooklyn rooftop party. Listening to this record, I waited for the cast of Girls to appear in funky hats to spew vacuous entitlement in the disguise of substance. By the end of the third track, “Starling,” Dig Nitty is pouring you a glass of lukewarm milk to put you to sleep.
I do love mellow bands, but I expect them to sweat passion through the pores of their songs. Dig Nitty left their emotion back in the garage. Dull, not dulcet tones, clang through this absentminded album. The sound is inoffensively boring and lacks any kind of musical risk. When the fifth track “Oleander” played, I fully came to understand the definition of insanity: repeating the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. These songs are soulless. The only heart I felt pounding through the tracks’ beats was mine working overtime to help me bleed out as quickly as possible.
Dig Nitty’s sixth track, “NYC,” is yet another bland and unoriginal ode to NYC. The song picks up for a hopeful five seconds but then confronts us unceremoniously with clashing guitar. Is it possible that these disharmonious tones reflect Dig Nitty’s actual New York experiences? It’s possible; however, what I hear instead are young 20 somethings who know no consequences for their actions and are taking it out on my ears.
“Screen” and “Angel Calling” continue to serve up a vanilla and restrained sound. By the end of “Blue Bard,” I’m back on the set of the Girls version of my life where I’m doing heroine in a lavish rag of a dress and even though I’m starting to get nauseous and probably shouldn’t be sitting on this bench with this dealer I just met, Daddy will make sure I don’t get into any long term trouble, in fact he’ll introduce me to the Johnson kid who doesn’t like to button up his Tommy Bahama shirts when on vacation in the Hamptons, but one day we’ll be married in the ‘burbs, voting Republican (for the taxes of course), and painting our fences white. The song ends with another disharmonious clash as if Dig Nitty must protest playing any song with technical depth. The confrontation of noise then wakes me up from my heroine dream and I puke up my expensive liquid dinner.
“Reverse of Mastery” is a practice in patience. In an attempt to stand out, this album will instead blend into the background at your next hipster “dive” bar where you await your $27 handcrafted espresso martini.