Around 1994 there was a Scottish band called The Gyres, formed (like just about every band of that period) because they’d heard ‘Supersonic’ by Oasis. This was exciting to me and my high school friends because they were a local band, and this suggested we could all do it, we could all form a band and play Britpop tunes. The Gyres became such a local success that they featured on a BBC Scotland documentary, the cameras following them about their home town of Blantyre, not too far from Glasgow, as they spent their time away from playing and making music by drinking Buckfast and hanging around on street corners getting “steamin’”. Still, this remained exciting for us, right up to the point where I saw them play live. Man, they were tragic. If Oasis were the base level for bands that arrived in their wake, then The Gyres were several circles of hell below that. A support slot for Trash Can Sinatras at Harleys Rock Cafe in Hamilton suggests the level at which they should have remained.

What’s the point to this story? Well, it’s always seemed to me that Scotland has had more than its fair share of abysmal coattail riders over the years. For every Teenage Fanclub there’s been a Catcher or The Supernaturals, Franz Ferdinand inspired the likes of The Dykeenies, and we’ve got The Libertines to thank for the horrors of The Fratellis and The View.

Enter then, Kassidy. A Glaswegian four-piece with a twist – they’re all guitarists/vocalists – who trade in 1960s-inspired folk/blues rock. Long of hair and hirsute of beard, they’re trying to channel the Californian, Laurel Canyon vibe in debut record Hope St. However, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young they are not. Hell, they’re not even Crosby, Stills and Nash. This is what the world has been waiting for: it’s a hybrid of Mumford and Sons, Fleet Foxes, Kings of Leon and Counting Crows, and it’s very bad indeed.

I don’t doubt that these boys have talent. It’s a well-made record, produced by Jim Abbiss (what was he thinking, getting mixed up in this?) but the first error Kassidy made was to rely on a basic backbeat for every single song. Okay, so they can all play guitar and sing, but if every song relies on a stomp and a handclap as a foundation then you’re either going to get something that sounds like Seasick Steve played at too fast a pace (‘Stray Cat’) or turgid MOR (just about everything else). I’m sure that the success of Fleet Foxes as a “vocal group” has played a part in the decision to go with a stripped-down sound, but even that band has J Tillman, an instinctive and talented drummer, and fantastic songwriter to boot. It’s a terrible decision by Kassidy; no amount of song writers will matter when this stylistic choice absolutely limits a band’s scope.

I’ve always tried to steer clear of completely destroying a record in my time at The Line of Best Fit, so I can report that there are two decent songs on the record. ‘That Old Song’ shuffles along very nicely indeed, and ‘The Lost’ calls to mind the blues power of The Soledad Brothers. There’s also ‘I Don’t Know’, whose lovely harmonies are ruined by the crushing predictability of everything else about it.

I honestly thought that those Britpop days were gone where anyone could get a record deal and release an album or two before disappearing into the ether. This isn’t the fault of Kassidy, of course. They strike me as an honest bunch that do enjoy making music, and who wouldn’t say no to a six figure deal to release a few records – it’s just that albums as obviously limited as Hope St shouldn’t have money spent on them in the first place. Still record companies throw money away on bands like this when there are bright hopes all over the country being ignored.

Actually, if Wet Wet Wet (a band that always went on about their blues chops) ever made a concept album about the Wild West, it might sound a lot like Hope St. One to avoid, I’m afraid.