is a record for the fans. There’s a safety about it, a sense of going through the motions, but it’s not necessarily a stale batch. Troubled throughout by almosts: almost sweet, almost catchy, almost pop, it is essentially not quite the album that it could be.
It’s a touch archaic; bearing symbols of an era not long gone. Where once ‘alt’ and ‘indie rock’ environs saw Built To Spill comfortably sheltered, an album of more of the same oddly enough suggests more that the time for this music has just passed, and not that they aren’t, as some might phrase it, still on form.
Lyrically, there are some hidden cringes such as ‘I think Bill Hicks was right about what they should do,’ or repeating ‘fucked up’ every line for the first verse in ‘Pat.’ It’s a terrible dilemma to be in, and perhaps one which illustrates a problem with the album overall. That is, to be at once eschewing obviousness, yet simultaneously dipping into the awkward or cliche by accident.
Ultimately, this album is tame and uncaptivating. It’ll do little evangelising, but no doubt will satisfy the converted substantially.
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