Smoke after the fireworks; hanging in the air like a specter. That’s what this album sounds like: smoke in your clothes, eyes burning, lingering notes drifting through the air, slow to dissipate. And although it doesn’t come right out and scream all the way through like the quiver of released and previously collected singles, the result’s remarkable. It’s a slow-burning smolder that shows age as maturity, which, when it does explode, is all the more powerful (think of the tension of the burning fuse). Joan Jett’s not dead, but Alicja Trout is my generation’s Joan Jett: an undeniable talent driving a force behind whatever marketing ploy could theoretically be foisted upon her. At the core, she’s a consummate, passionate musician. This is music for mature rockers who don’t devalue youth nor fake their age and it’s for fans of bands as widely scattered as the Bassholes, Top Ten, Big Star, Mouserocket, Roky Erickson, and, well, great rock music.