Denali
Denali
Jade Tree

At first listen, Denali singer Maura Davis sounds like Portishead's Beth Gibbons — if Gibbons' cords weren't frayed by chain smoking. And if Davis could make you feel something besides irritated by her pitch. But Denali are no Portishead, though they do slink toward the sultry sounds of those Bristol sour timers.

Denali — Athabascan for "the high one," in reference to Mount McKinley, the highest mountain in North America — is an apt moniker. Davis' soprano whine hovers over the mostly uninteresting work of her three male counterparts, two of whom are members of Richmond, Va.'s Engine Down, and one of whom is her brother. The story according to their website goes: "Maura Davis approached her older brother ... with the idea of fleshing out some songs that she had been working on." Read: "But, I want to be in a band, too!"

Backing up Denali's limp siren, Brother and Co. chime in with bass, guitar, drums and an occasional scratchy sample — a sad attempt at giving movement and emotion to Davis' flat wail. Behind her screech, the songs lose any sense of dynamic. Her range is high, but keeping her voice in the stratosphere doesn't let anyone appreciate how she got it there in the first place.

Variation among the 10 tracks of this debut is practically nonexistent. From "French Mistake" to "Where I Landed," the tone is a plateau. Denali's sound is astonishingly consistent, which would be a compliment for any other band. In this case, though, the group's consistency is due to the dullness of its music.

Still, the sound works sometimes. A weighty beat nearly grounds Davis' voice in "You File" and "Gunner" begins like a lash off Portishead's "Western Eyes." Some production help from Mark Linkous on "Prozac" and "Relief" also lends some woodsy sampling of the chirping yet gloomy Sparklehorse variety.

Occasionally, such as on "You File" and "Prozac," the rest of the band sneaks in a line before Davis starts in. But those moments are few and unmemorable. The instruments, for the most part, chug monotonously behind the singing. And all that singing wouldn't matter so much if Davis varied her delivery or had something really important to say. But "love don't you feel the beating," and "my feet are stuck and my eyes leak?"

The best thing about the album, though, is its 45-minute length. Davis squeals, "And now it's already over." It's about time.

— Lavina Lee (lavina at flakmag dot com)