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| 4.0 excellent | TheManMachine | October 8th 15 |
When bitter-pill narrator frontman T. Hardy isn't calling out phony city-slickers or slinkin' 'round towns and checking into 'cheapies', he puts out the vague notion of having been there/done that/seen it all -- insistent on having "stories that'll make you hurt" but when it comes time to tell 'em, they're rendered into the small-time country-boy rebellion of class clownin' and hair growin'. What does shine however is his knack for an unlikely turn of phrase: his choral proclamations of not taking back the things he said OR giving back the things he took have a quintessentially rudimental riotousness to them, "they caught me napping behind a bar / outside the city inside of my car" gradually uncovers his actual sleep-spot whereabouts like a pitiful matryoshka doll, 'Littleworth' and 'shit in the wind' are shibboleth-worthy. And his Hardknockin' backups? Pedal steel grandeur, raw-n-haggard guitars, happy-to-plop bass, contentedly garage-dweller drums, bonus fuzz for good measure -- a concordance of campestral beauty and alt-grunge dirt, and also more than capable of a stupendously desolate crawl-slow finish.
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