Highly recommended. "Like all other Pheromoans records before (and likely all others to come), the plughole around which all these tracks swirl is Russell Walker’s oddball, magnetic storytelling. Never ostentatious or wrapped up in theatrics, Walker is like the anti-Nick Cave, almost underselling his strange little anecdotes about smoking priests and other mostly mundane goings on. In doing so, though, he belies his confidence in the words themselves. To be sure, Walker is an immensely talented writer and lyricist – funny and moving, one of a kind. He’ll have you caring about these peculiar mundanities, while most others would simply inspire a shrug. Which is not to diminish the complementary accompaniment laid down by Walker’s bandmates James Tranmer, Daniel Bolger, Scott Reeve, and Pheromoanal newbie, guitarist Henry Holmes; without all of whom Walker’s words would have decidedly less impact. Focused on robust, hooky guitars, the jams here range from bittersweet to downright chipper – sprightly, even – boasting a fuller sound than they ever have. If not hi-fi exactly, this is the highest-fi thing they’ve done, the most polished, and beyond that, the closest to broadly accessible. Is it their best? That’s tough to say. But it’s among their best, and that’s saying something. I don’t know anything about whether or not any of The Pheromoans have grandad’s cash on hand, but the point is this: they’ve stuck to their guns. Their thing is their thing. They’re still trying just hard enough. Let’s celebrate that. Let’s buy them all a coffee. Let’s beckon down the ghost of Mark E. Smith to crown them the kings of the sprechgesang gang. (Look out, Sleafords! Look out, Yard Act! Look out, Dry Cleaning!) Or even better, let’s listen to their records. Listen for the first time if you haven’t yet. Pony up for them if you can. Start with this one and work your way back." - The Quietus
