Let me begin with an admission: I’ve never smoked pot, gobbled acid, shot heroin, snorted crack, drank cough medicine or sniffed paint. I don’t even like taking pain relievers if I don’t have to. While this probably means as a writer I’ll never be able to match the frenetic brilliance of Lester Bangs’ amphetamine-fueled prose, it also means I don’t quite “get” West Indian Girl. Since principal members Robert James and Francis Ten were high during much of the recording of the collective’s debut album, (the group is even named after a strain of “designer” acid) I must be at a disadvantage for not listening to the record in the same state. To my sober ears, it sounds like its syrupy soundscapes, off-key vocals, achingly repetitive grooves and yawn-inspiring lyrics (“It’s summertime / Let’s trip tonight,” sings James on “Trip”) could easily be replicated by any musically savvy individual with enough studio time. Where grandfathers of drug-induced rock like The Beatles, Hendrix and Pink Floyd had something to say—even if we didn’t quite understand it—it seems West Indian girl is simply saying, “Hey, we’re making an album! In the Hollywood Hills! Isn’t that awesome?” Not really. The album makes for some decent background music, and the production is quite pristine, but it’s desperately in need of more substance and less substance abuse.