There's not a lot of variation here, but variation is a crutch for the uncommitted, right? Just ask the Ramones. Or Sousa. Or the republican base. Thing is, what these guys do may be limited, but they do it like the next three minutes are the most important 179 seconds in the universe. Almost every song seems to rise out of a morose static drone that bleeds between tracks, and when the embellishments arrive - a nervous acoustic strum, 60s girl group beat, the constant threat of guitar violence - they're just faintly familiar enough that they cradle everything in the comfort of nostalgia. And the cherry on top of all that is the voice - an untrained working class Scot burr that doesn't so much confess sins as declare them. The end result shimmers with a luminous melancholy that contains a fair amount of magic. Definitely a mood piece, but it's a mood that most of us are eventually committed to whether we like it or not.
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