"Have wah-wah pedal, will travel" is the creed The Purrs live by. Going through the past, darkly and with a bit of a swagger, on their self-titled debut, the Seattle band gives the effect a workout in "She's Gone." Not bitter or anything, Jima of The Purrs speaks not at all well of the woman who left him in "She's Gone," describing her as " ... the spit in my drink" to a swinging 60s psychedelic garage-rock groove. Now, they don't give out Mercury Prizes for one-line disses like that, but that's one's as good as it gets.

But wait, it gets better. In "Don't Stop Kicking Me Down," Jima, playing the role of class warrior, breaks down the difference between himself and the rich. It's as simple as this: "Now, assholes live in castles and maggots live in my brain" - that ought to be spray-painted on a wall somewhere. Given a cat-scan, doctors might find maggots living in Anton Newcombe's brain too, which would explain a lot. Newcombe, the cracked leader of indie-rock's Manson family, the dysfunctional Brian Jonestown Massacre, and The Purrs have a lot in common, including a weakness for the Velvet Underground, dream-pop, pop that jangles like that of The Byrds, and 80s shoegazers like My Bloody Valentine and Swervedriver.

On their self-titled debut, The Purrs retrace their roots and wind up at Spahn Ranch, falling down the rabbit hole past Galaxie 500, past The Church, until they snag their black sweaters on the rock of The Creation and The Rolling Stones. Strong guitar riffs and dark, drugged-out pop sentiments mark this self-titled release, highlighted by the Velvet Underground-inspired, spaghetti Western treatment of "The Dreams Our Stuff Is Made Of." More grounded is the solid rocker "Loose Talk," with its easy guitar jangle, "Sha la la la" backing vocals and small town, "ticking time bomb" lyrics, while "Connect The Dots" has a shooting-star backdrop and a paisley, acid-laced groove that can delight or bore, depending on your mood.

That tendency toward lazy, drifting tempos works against The Purrs in the long, drawn-out flight of "Ebb & Flow." A star-kissed melody isn't enough to drag this one across the heavens. It falls to earth in a heap of unrealized potential. In danger of falling apart, The Purrs pull it together for the stretch run, with the whimsical black celebration of the autumnal "Because I Want To" and the desert howl of the starry "Taste Of Monday" mining lost grooves Black Rebel Motorcycle Club has never found. The slow, pretty drawl of the closer, "Don't Stop Kicking Me Down," is more proof of The Purrs' ability to bend dreamy, shoegazer textures and psychedelic wanderings to their hypnotic will.

The Purrs do seem to be trapped in a sound not of their own making, even if they do break out occasionally. This is the Brian Jonestown Massacre's music, and even they can be slaves to their influences. So what you have here is a forgery of a forgery. Admire it for its melodic artistry, but don't try to cash it.