Oh wolves, wolves, wolves: we're awash with them, in our eyes and on parade, on the street corners and in the clubs, cuddling cubs and dismembering drunkards. What have you now for us, oh lupine howlers? From Montreal you hail, but bearing what? Trash synths and yelps from a b-movie set collapse, brains bashed by falling masonry, splinters burying deep and clean? Our blood remains warm, unchilled by your presence; our bodies stand inert, unmoved by your basslines.

Throughout, actually: We Are Wolves' M.O. is one enacted with greater gall by a slew of down-tuned keyboard pluggers and punk-rockin' tight-trewed brothers - it's got some sass, granted, but no single song really does anything to get frenzied about; no desperate guy is gonna go high-kicking to a We Are Wolves jam. Shouts and shouts and shouts and something about a cow? Maybe. Perhaps it's a carcass, released steam wafting upwards on the night's air in an alley someplace we shouldn't be, but dive right in we won't, thanks; I've a pasta bake in the oven asking for a little TLC and an across-town train ride.

Skipping attention like a stone across a pool of fresh crimson reveals thus: 'La Nature' is all whine and grind and gristle and bone, but lacks any real nutritional value; likewise, 'Non Stop' pulses like a throat exposed to a lecherous tongue, but possesses all the sex appeal of a sister found lifeless in stockings and suspenders, some fucker's belt about her throat. ...Je Te Plie... is all tease and no touch, all perusal and no penetration. "Take us! Take us?". But they're as preoccupied as we are. Pass a fork and switch it to mute.

The style council has adjourned: We Are Wolves, teach yourself some songs already.