Blind Rorschach Mr. Potato Head testing. Close eyes, press “Play,” construct MPH accordingly. At the end of The Abigails’ Tundra, my be-speckled, mustachioed Potato Head was wearing tight jeans and a fringe jacket, smoking a corncob pipe and tipping his floppy hat like Dylan on the cover of Nashville Skyline. Sonically, The Abigails throws Waylon outlaw slides, Dylan shuffle, and Cohen delivery into palatable three-minute joints that would be graciously passed around at early 1970s L.A. country rock parties. Songs about medication and jail wrapped up in packaging reminiscent of Exene’s doodles on X’s lyric sheets. Slackers and dirt bags take heed, The Abigails has your lazy summer jams covered.
–Matt Seward (Burger)