Bands that attempt to synthesize the past couple of decades of cock-rock, as these guys do, usually depend on either a shredding guitarist or a charismatic lead vocalist to set off their brand, and on their debut, Baton Rouge trio Burnhouse have chosen to go with the latter, for better and for worse: Singer Michael Rayburn offers up a strange and unholy mix of posturing all over these eight originals, a weird Frankenstein of Chad Kroeger’s dudebrah gravitas, Ed Kowalczyk’s studied introspection, and Adam Levine’s white-boy soul, all topped off by a warbling shriek that’s supposed to be reminiscent of David Coverdale but, especially when those double-tracked harmonies kick in, just sounds like a high, gobbling shriek.

The band itself is clearly competent on attempted ripsnorters like “Loving You” and moody bar-closers such as “Free Again”—and drummer Jude Housewright, for his part, really goes out of his way to kick these guys’ asses when he thinks they need it. But Rayburn is clearly the centerpiece of Burnhouse’s sound, and his cross-platform mansplaining is about as unconvincing as it comes. Even pandering takes focus, folks. Especially pandering.