I’m a dick. I really liked these guys when they played a basement in WashingtonDC or thereabouts, and asked for this CD specifically, but, good lord, a fucking tambourine? On not just one song? Songs fit for the “Dawson’s Creek” soundtrack (they have that, right?)? What I liked in that sweaty basement wasn’t the perfectly harmonzied Edie Brickell weeping vaginathon (but it sounds like a thirteen-year-old, so I’m feelin’ like a pedophile right now), but a rockin’ band that – agreed, had arty moments – but bordered on new wave and reminded me of Discount. Man, I’m thrown for a loop. Is my memory that fucked? Has Pabst finally conspired against me? Is my history being re-written, like how the Warren Commission concluded that Lee Harvey Oswald “acted alone with no clear motive”? Arrrggh! A drum machine over an acoustic thingameybob on track four. More emo supreme filigree crying poo follows. Kill it. Kill it… Mommy, make it stop.