It's amazing how quickly inspiration turns to parody these days. During the mid-'80s, the earsplitting feedback and dissonant tuning of a Sonic Youth record sounded inventive, branching off into uncharted territory. Now bands seem to play a game of who can out-hip whom with their disaffection, who can sing farther off-key to prove how tired and jaded they are, and who can write the most disjointed lyrics.

The Grifters are a four-piece from Memphis, Tenn., with three singers who can't find it within themselves to hit a note on pitch. They credit the same three guys with playing guitar, never differentiating between bass, rhythm and lead. It's riff rock but with a solid refusal to allow the riffs access to their anthemic potential. The result is music that revels in its insularity, its innate ability to turn outsiders off while indulging insiders with self-conscious nods to indie-rock influences Pavement, Lou Reed and, of course, Sonic Youth.

Ain't My Lookout is a lackluster collection of half-baked songs, unexplored melodic ideas and self-obsessed lyrics. It never grooves and rarely jells. "Boho/Alt" announces, "Nobody loves you better than yourself," and instead of puncturing their target's self-obsession, the Grifters reflect the singer's smug, ironic tone.

A few cuts succeed. "Last Man Alive" is saved by its melody. "My Apology" manages Jonathan Richman quirkiness, although without the charm, and "Give Yourself to Me" matches space rock with rustic harmonica and a nicely distorted vocal. But don't be fooled. The Grifters try to substitute cleverness for passion, but they don't care enough to take risks. Why should we care enough to listen? (RS 728)

ROB O'CONNOR