| But who knows? It could just be that people
stopped making good indie rock records, and now Jason Loewenstein
has made one, and, given that it makes its appearance in a marketplace
decidedly lacking in comparable efforts, it sounds like the kraken
rising from the depths. Each listen yields deeper, darker dividends;the
song called “More Drugs” gives me the chills in a big, hard
way. By the time the album-closing “Transform” lopes into
the room like some rude beast sidling up from among thick trees along
the turnpike in Western Massachusettes, starving for blood and ready
to eat, I’m persuaded: the album whose appearance in my mailbox
made me wonder if the package had been languishing in the post office
since ‘97, is in fact an utterly vital document that testifies
to the most basic truism in rock music, viz.,. Which is to say: you’re not likely to hear this one
unless you put forth some effort. Do so. You are not likely to regret
it. |
