Sparking Kozelek's current cruise toward clearly strained rambles-for-rambles sake was this touchy yet touching me-first manifesto. Having not yet mastered the bereavement route that boosted Benji, his sentiments wander from TMI-n-minute tour/life diary to brusque gripes galore to the simple beauty of a park or young love; difference is here he seemed to kinda still give a shit bout sentimentin' it. Willing to sell-n-sing a tune and able to singularly pluck you into lullaby, his casual cringes at young Brits' horseshit chatter and a tennis-shoed guy for cute-as-fuck girl fan-base swap are a dry hoot; antagonizing suspected phony poets and women that in his not so humble opinion get by on their looks softly+somehow stirring. This is when personal peculiarities and playing the vet sad traditional folk man collide; a rare bonafide balladeer of gone fave guitar fixer and women both scorned and impressed emerging. Songwriting? "A big nagging cyst."