I’m not much of a betting man, but here’s something I’d lay
money on: close your eyes, point your finger to a map of the continental United
States, head immediately to the nearest dive bar, and whatever random ragged
band is playing there will offer more spirited renditions of “You Never Can
Tell” and “Dead Flowers” than these lazy bums, coasting into a new contract
with MCA that must have just thrilled
the suits. Truly, this is one of the most phoned-in albums I’ve ever heard,
major label or self-released. Not for one flickering instant does it spring to
life; they don’t write songs (there’s one paltry original, and it ain’t much to
speak of), and the otherwise all-covers track listing seems mostly chosen to
allow Skip Battin to do nothing but ride bass scales for a whole LP. Nobody
else does anything, either; there may be legitimate metaphysical questions as
to whether this album even exists. God knows I can’t vouch for it, and the damn
thing is playing as I type.
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