've had several friends throughout my life who were major connoisseurs of pot. I'm not talking about a joint or two on the weekends, or even a daily habit. I'm talking about guys who are stoned 24/7. No exaggeration. Which is okay if it's working for you, I suppose...whatever floats your boat, right?

But still, I was curious. Isn't the whole point of drugs to provide an altered state of consciousness? Do them enough, and "altered" becomes the "norm." I've asked them to clarify this habit for me, but I've never received a concrete answer.

I doubt The Arthurs could give me a reason for their overindulgence, either. Not because they're too high to do so (though I imagine they're no strangers to that), but rather because they really don't have an original thought in their collective heads.

So what is this vice The Arthurs are irrevocably trapped in? Glad you asked - it's the Beatles, and various other sunny British Invasion bands (I'm referring more to bands in the vein of Gerry and the Pacemakers, not the Who - The Arthurs don't have the balls to rock out like that). If you've ever heard a pre-Revolver Beatles song, then you've heard the Arthurs' new album, Walking In the Sunlight, as well...more or less.

All the hallmarks are there; breezy, jangling guitars, impeccable vocal harmonies, jaunty rhythms and whimsical lyrics. It's all executed professionally enough, but doesn't equate to a refreshing listening experience. The Monkees and Rutles already made a living by ripping off the Beatles - why be so redundant now?

Fellow 60s pop revivalists/revisionists such as The Apples (In Stereo), Olivia Tremor Control and Elf Power (basically anyone associated with the Elephant 6 recording collective) often take cues from the Fab Four, among others, but are more than able to bring something new to the table. Robert Schneider of the Apples isn't afraid to throw a little bit of fuzzy distortion into his stupidly happy sing-alongs; OTC provide a hazy look at the Beatles and Beach Boys through a schizophrenic's ear. Even a group like Of Montreal, who have just about as many original ideas as the Arthurs, are so insanely enthusiastic about their little psych-pop Skittles that it's hard to fault them.

But the Arthurs can't even hide under that excuse. Sure, there are parts of the album infused with vigor, such as the doe-eyed opener, "Sunlight," but these moments are few and far between. You get the feeling the Arthurs' sound is purely arbitrary. I can imagine these guys back in art school, spinning a giant Music Genre wheel of fortune.

"Okay, let's see what we end up with..." Phhhhwwiiiishshhhhhhh!.

"Aww, geez, Greg - I don't wanna be in an emo band!"

"Alright, cool your horses; we'll spin again." Phhhhhwiiisshhhhh! "Hmmmm...Beatlesesque indie pop. Yeah, I remember my pops playin' that "Yellow Submarine" song. We could do that!"

No, you can't. Walking In the Sunlight actually starts off on a semi-promising note, as a children's chorus greets you in the effervescent opener, "Sunlight." It's hard to swallow such grade school stabs at poetry such as "Midnight makes me feel lazy/And all I want to do is go out walking/Leaves look that much greener/And the clouds float that much nearer/Sunlit eyes reflect that much clearer..." Yeah, save it for the church group, buddy. Still, coated in the irresistible candy shell that it is, it makes for modest and naive fun.

Unfortunately, it's all downhill from there, really. "I Can't Love You Anymore" continues the lyrical woes, as we are privy to what seems to be the disintegrating relationship of two young lovers. Gee, I sure hope they make it 'till junior prom. The Dawson's Creek drama of this album wears quite thin very quickly.

Each track just bleeds into the next, sounding perfectly inoffensive to the point of banality while playing, and totally forgettable afterwards. If you can pick up differences between the mind-rotting cotton candy of "Rollerskates & Mini-Skirts" and the autobiographical "Northern Song," then be sure to let me know. "Northern Song" actually achieves an unintentional level of amusement, as it details their prowess as a band, proven to bowl you over "rain or shine, in every single time zone." Hmmm...I wonder if the Seventh Circle of Hell is booking gigs now.

It all culminates in the sock-hop limbo of "Come To Me," which has more syrup than a Vermont maple tree in December. "Hours, Eyes Closed" decides to up the ante, throwing in a dusk-colored bass line (get it - the album starts off sunny, and ends with sunset - it's a concept album!!) and supposedly haunting vocals.

Just about the only thing the Arthurs do have going for them is brevity. Most of the songs clock in at the three-minute mark, or shorter, and the albums itself is not much more than a half-hour. But how long that can seem...

It's too bad this disc is so derivative of both the Arthurs' influences and peers, because it seems like they really tried. Any band with enough chutzpah to record a love song to themselves such as "Northern Song" must at least have a little bit of confidence in themselves. Hey, look on the bright side, guys - maybe there's a local Beatles cover band looking for some backup singers.