If I were a younger man, I might still have long-distance longings, fetishize bottles of wine, desperation, gleeful self-destruction, and candy-ass, poppy indie tunes such as these. I might appreciate the delirious stupidity of the one-dimensional songwriting and hearty, blissful resistance to metaphor or complexity as much as I can appreciate their adorable, lyrical homage to riffs they’ve stolen (“I did a lot of pills in Memphis/I smoked a lot of grass down in New Orleans”). However, as the crustified, walker-rocker that I am, I find it impossible to relate. Nope, Captain Hook here can’t hang, but that does little to inhibit this from being a kick-ass album, nor my ability to recognize it as such. Now you kids stop snickering and get to bed!
–Craven Rock (Self-released, [email protected])