Ariel Pink is a terrible man. He is trapped in a land populated by heartfelt hits and horribly saccharine memories of the eighties. He has been seduced by the notion of the cool balladeer, by the strut, by the sensitive crooner with big hair and a fragile heart. Yet none of this makes him terrible. Not even the fact that this whole album, perhaps not as catchy as his previous two for Paw Tracks, was recorded on 8-track cassette and is therefore a little lacking in both bottom end and highs. After all it’s not his fault he hasn’ found himself a rich benefactor to spoil him for months on end in the studio. It’s not even because on this album there’ much more lame backing vocal action, all done by him of course, as are pretty much all the instruments. The reason he’ so terrible is that he’ elected to share it, and terrify the listener with these conflicting emotion wrought reminders of their youth, of long buried memories and social discomfort. Ariel Pink is the musical personification of our awkward embarrassment, of everything we’ve spent twenty years trying to forget and not only is he aware of this – he actively courts it, exaggerating his earnest lameness and camping up the wrongness. And frankly I don’ think that makes him very nice at all.