Morecheeba's press kit boasts write ups from such national magazines as Rolling Stone, SPIN, Details and even the ever trend-setting, taste-making, Mademoiselle. The clippings adequately describe Cheeba's mixing smorgasbord of samples, scratches, sitars and slide guitars, all topped with a shimmering sprinkling of Sade-like vocal stylings. What the press fails to mention, however, is how brain-drainingly boring this Kevorkian cocktail of maudlin meandering is when played live, without benefit of THC, LSD, MDA, GHB or whatever the alphabets du jour are these days. Not many in the crowd noticed the lack of energy on stage, however. Most of the attendees were too busy networking, yawning, discussing long distance romances or snoozing by one of the side bars. Jet Set Jenna pointed out one person wearing earplugs. This accessory was either the product of extreme sarcasm or a way too over protective mother.

As if the evening's proceedings weren't hush hushed enough, at one point the whispery voiced Skye Edwards actually asked for quiet from a crowd that could barely be heard breathing. If this whole trip-hop thing proves to be just another flashback in the pan, Skye can surely get work shushing people in the reference section of her local library. It is, after all, important to have something to fall back – as well as pass out – on.

Morecheeba's clean casual appearance, moderate musical ability and tasteful showmanship barely generated any interest in me to get up close and see what's happening on stage, though they did have a small string section behind a plexi-glass wall. This, I've never seen before and don't care if I ever see again. The band apparently values subtlety over substance, except for the substances abused while layering overdoses of effects on their so-called songs and chant-a-longs.

Guitarist Ross Godfrey did display diverse taste, talent and a handsome collection of vintage instruments. He was adept at playing a variety of styles from the bluesy slide guitar of "Part of the Process" to the skanky reggae of "Friction." Godfrey proved himself to be a journeyman in the making. Another 75-watt spot in this otherwise dim bulb of a show was Morecheeba's version of the classic "Summertime." Here, Skye's breathy voice and butterfly delicate phrasing were shown to best advantage. So quiet did Irving Plaza become that I could hear the ice melting in my drink. Sadly, as the show bore on, all I was left with was a watery drink and half a gig to go.

Morecheeba finally closed their show with a second encore which was an inexplicably loud 'n' proud version of "Papa's Got a Brand New Bag." This featured an unnamed guest vocalist who looked like Samuel L. Jackson from Pulp Fiction in an iridescent vinyl suit. This truly was something to see, but was totally out of place from the controlled nuances of the rest of the show. For a moment I thought I'd been transported through time and space to some strange funk night on "Star Search." Where's Ed McMahon when you need him?

So, Morecheeba fans (And God knows, there are a lot of ya!), there it be, for what it's worth, in all its ganja-implied glory, my stumble opinion of a band that should only be experienced under the direct supervision of an experienced and heavy-handed bartender. Preferably, this would be in a cozy, smoky lounge where the management doesn't mind you catching a little cat nap with your nightcap.