Sometimes I want to say that Craig Finn has made the same album again, changed a few names, addresses, maybe the people who inspire him have changed, but they all resemble each other; he has exchanged chords with that part of himself belonging to The Hold Steady, washed his face two times before going to the supermarket.

And I said it all, right here, without any evil intentions, but I did not say he had always been able to put all of this down to me as completely new, fresh, for a new version of me, for a new coffee in a corner I made for myself and for a new rush of immense love for his lazy, emphatic, on the edge of remorse guitar version of a man who has just parked a truck, and is on his way to join his band for a rehearsal,  and his rhythmic storytelling as if never wanted to talk, but he’s drank and relaxed, so why not to tell.

A woman who catches a bit of Craig Finn passing by the source of sound, and this time a bit tenderer than in the previous albums, so she goes back a few steps, she always has a smile with a little blouse between her teeth.