The synth that opens this is harsh and awkwardly angled (similar to what Single Frame’s doing these days) so that when the guitar joins the phrase it’s not grand or exciting or whatever, it’s uncomfortable. And that’s what Dee Kesler talks about: fluorescent lights, droning through night classes, focusing on the ache of a bad tooth just to stay awake -- you know, real Fight Club first act or “The Jitters” kind of shit. It’s a little unpleasant and disquieting and too close to home, or rather, too far from what home should be like. We’re old enough now to be scared out of our minds by the fact that home is only what we make it, and we, we bums don’t even know where to start. And you thought this band was gonna turn into Grandaddy.

Thee More Shallows match music to sentiment; the lyrics are plain and plainly made statements while the flavor’s in the instruments, which skronk, buzz, and inhale before exploding into a migraine. It’s a sad and hurtful song, a documentary of a place where many of us have been and don’t care to return to, but its observation is matter-of-fact while its music is keening expressionism; so we don’t have to break our dead-pan, don’t have to lose the ice grill, yet we can still feel that that fucked-up keyboard is sorry for us all. Which might not be the most enlightened or enjoyable of artistic aspirations, but it is pretty Anticon. Welcome to music for the advancement of emo.

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