With an inflection that converges Dan Bejar+Neil Young and a propensity for snazzy doo-wop+emphatic drunkenness, Furman seems like he's starring in his own autobiographical community college stage production; at times utilizing fuzz attacks, sad-sack sleepers and jerky gender-bend jocosity. His jaunty pursuit of a secure-ish place in this kuh-razy world is rich+resonant, but oh can it get irksome -- between horns gone wild and all-out drama-warble and shoobie-doops there's also the sad-n-sinning-artist exhibitionism: kneeling at the toilet, whiskey-gulp confessor sessions, solitary walks/drives/life, rich kids+smoke rings, the concerned grousing of a 28-year old. Which can make not only for riveting performances, but lines here+there that achieve (some form of) poetic profundity -- the trouble is deducting the ones that read like a Dollar Store keychain. Just ask Conor Oberst.
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