But when I say "raw" and "emotional," I don't mean "histrionic," and I can't, since nothing announces its own temporality like a tantrum. Three-minute garage rock songs are great because you know they'll collapse before they get around to carrying out any of the threats they're making. Emotional music that plays for keeps relies on empty spaces and unfinished phrases, and the Junior Boys happen to have these two areas cordoned off behind a red velvet rope that they manufactured with their own bare hands. Every song makes use of space, and echo, and distance; but for me, none does so to quite such devastating effect as the title track.

It must have become clear to the reader by now that I think of Last Exit as a work of considerable complexity. I hope this won't scare anybody away from an album that is, on its surface, a pleasant  lilting waltz across a polished floor. At the same time, I think there's a depth to Last Exit that can't be explained without recourse to some fairly oblique strategies. It's heavy, even though sonically it's as light as meringue. Even though I've been listening to heavy metal all week, and have plenty to say about lots of the metal I've been enjoying, I think that Last Exit is going to demand at least one more week's scrutiny. We will see you next Sunday.