A deeply British album, with that Blur-y disapproval and a post-Madchester onandonandon structure, every song seemingly built for a live raveup where repetitions melt time. The vocals are the at the center, soaring skyhigh over jangly guitars, while a loose story of depravity falls out (don't be fooled by the surely-ironic secret track claiming The Lyrics Aren't Supposed to Mean that Much).
These guys were weird - hard-drinking, self-sabotaging cads getting by on the Devil's luck - it all comes out in this, an eccentric, ill-focused big-little record that disappears into itself, sitting there on the couch while you wonder what it's thinking about 3.5/5
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