Full of folky strums, fragile vocals, and a fleet-fingered sense of construction that seems almost too casual until you realize how well it holds together.
Smart guys who’ve read Kafka and know the oppression of peons the world over. Musically though, the start/stop trashcan pound sound leaves me kinda distant.
Fair-weather fans have no need for different takes on the same material, completists have it already, and ’70s Wire-heads have no use for this period, period.
Artie’s shrink oughtta remind him once in a while that he’s a rich fuckin’ rock star and maybe he should please shut the fuck up and get fat or something.
An uncloseted romanticist who packs more mature pop sensibility into a single measure than an entire posse of fretboard-throttlers could manage in a lifetime.
Rosewood is one of those rare movies that is beautifully set, rich and believable in time, place, and culture, yet painful for those exact same reasons.