It’s awkward and unpleasant to see McGuinn so exposed here,
without the rotating cast of talented Byrds to hide behind. Left to his own
devices, he reveals himself an uninspired interpreter of other people’s songs
(and a godawful selector on that front—when the dude’s
not doing Dylan, he seems to think Dan Fogelberg is the next best thing), and
an untalented songwriter with nothing to say and no stylistic flourishes to
conceal the absence. It’s really a sad, dispiriting listen in every way,
checked-out and half-assed and impossible to commit to memory, possibly the
most lifeless thing McGuinn ever did. When that cover art is the best thing about the LP, you know you're in for suffering.
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