Lo-fi bedroom folk that bites Magnetic Fields and Sebadoh, but instead calls more to mind some pretentious, jerkoff in Olympia playing to a room of naïve, Evergreen students sitting on the floor. When I hear this, I keep expecting my shoulders to suddenly start being massaged by some creepy, artsy guy at any moment. Allow me to back up my ire. See, as shitty as this is, I might have been nicer and done the not-my-thing review, because I’m actually trying to be a little bit less of an asshole these days. But get this: THERE ARE TWENTY-SEVEN SONGS ON HERE! That’s four albums worth of wusscentric, whiny crap! A little humility goes a long way, dude, and I’m not talking about the soft-sleaze, sensitive act you put on to pick up indie rock girls.
–Craven ([email protected])