Months and months and innumerable listenings later, it's still an utter gem; to unnecessarily belabor a metaphor, it fulfills its gemlike potential by carrying a genuine flaw ("Japan," a totally pointless inclusion that is frankly beneath an act as good as CocoRosie). It's an album for the ages, really: shame on the people who hate it because CocoRosie live in Brooklyn, or wear trucker hats, or are rumored to be somewhat unapproachable personally. You know what other great artist was an asshole whose work often irritated and chafed before its treasures were willing to reveal themselves? All of them. Some of you I shouldn't have to be telling this to. Seriously.