Pitchfork

When Tim Perry rounds up friends to jam in his basement, it's not exactly a group of neighborhood slackers and burnouts. No, the collection of Portland locals filling out his songs includes members of the Joggers, the Standard, and the Grails. Perry's songs are so rich in carefully orchestrated harmonies and guitar chime, he's certainly earned such pedigreed collaborators.

"Apathy and Excess", for example, plays out like a depressive's version of "Michelle", Rubber Soul on a tranquilizer-and-Paxil cocktail. There's a sweetly sad dissonance in the lush vocals and the winding guitars that accompany them. And do you detect the hint of minor-key menace underneath it all? The sound of Perry's bruised, disaffected voice-- note how every verse line ends in an "s" so that he appears to be hissing-- and the backhanded compliment of a chorus ("There's nothing in this world worthy of your murderous smile") is scruffily modern against the charming vintage of the music. The song's intimate bridge pulls listeners into its intriguing world of marching-band snares, quiet bass vamping, and drunk-barbershop-quartet harmonies and then immediately spits them out with an ending that abruptly cuts to silence. But that's the thing about experienced musicians: they know it's best to leave the audience wanting more.