Metallic Falcons

Given a large, vacant parking lot, a car with a good set of tires, and a few inches of fresh snow, winter doughnuts can make for a pretty fine time. Desert Doughnuts? Not so much — not literally, and not when it comes to Metallic Falcons’ debut. The former’s a bust because it’s too easy to get stuck in the sand and wind up with grit gumming the vehicle’s innards; the latter’s no better because without the aid of hallucinogens or cannabis, Sierra Casady and Matteah Baim’s thin-gruel portentousness grows wearying once a couple of songs sleepwalk by. Experiencing their dross is comparable to being trapped in a tiny, stuffy room with someone suffering from multiple-personality disorder — a self-styled shaman (“Pale Dog”) who turns into a precocious child (“Nighttime and Morning,” “Snakes and Tea”), then reverts back to paw the sweating walls to the uncertain sounds of constipated guitars and pianos toy and proper.