Following a promising debut with an album on the woes of a touring band tested fans’ sympathies, but their third album finds the Chicago group focusing on the frustrations of getting laid.
It’s getting them down; on opener Everything’s Fucked, Powell can scarcely be bothered to wank. His howls of thwarted desire have echoes of Bleach or Black Francis.
What saves it is his wry self-awareness and the band’s pummelling of a good hook, brightening the desperate Tattoo On My Brain, Scary Dream, Holes and I’m Gonna Lose It. The final Everything’s Cool is a reconciliation – of sorts.