With nary a Yellow Brick Road to follow, what’s a "local" band with a lot of heart and guitar-powered drive to do these days?
While Pleasure has its moments, ultimately the Windsor band is that fine-tuned yet songless identity crisis in the making – just waiting for that e-mail from the coast that reads, "Good, boys, but I don’t hear a hit." The shuddering, emotional vocals and lush background noise are enough to make one sympathetic and hopeful – even when a topless fashion model and the dangling feet of a suicidal mannequin on the CD jacket reek suspiciously of an excessively conveyed dark side. This may be appropriate to the clean and spacious moodiness of Pleasure’s homogenous rock, but I doubt it. Lucky for this band, CD jackets can be easily changed. Now what do we have to do to get them to write their second song?
