The Dandy Warhols are no good at what they love and great at what they hate. Singer Courtney Taylor-Taylor is the kind of smirking chameleon pop fans adore, and with production boost from Nick Rhodes of Duran Duran, the Dandies made a streak of biting, well-grooved rock songs about dead friendships, veganism, haircuts, drugs and other subjects essential to youth culture—the music sounded fantastic on Veronica Mars, The O.C., Buffy, Six Feet Under and any other show or film that wanted to draft behind the band’s louche attitude. They were en route to a snazzy greatest-hits compilation, but now they prefer to sound stoned and scattered. Their sixth album is shambling and empty, spiked infrequently with a good bassline or an almost-good chorus, and even the jokes founder on the band’s contempt. Sneering out disco clichés on “Welcome to the Third World,” Taylor isn’t delighted to be in disguise, but disgusted by his source material—it’s sour parody instead of joyful dilettantism. And unrequited love is always sad.

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