Few things say "I am from Canada, hoser" like "The Tragically Hip rock!" Over the past ten years or so "The Hip," as their fans like to call them, have built a huge legion of American University, hat-wearing followers who guzzle Molson Canadian and do that funny dance that fratboys and frat girls are known to do: they do their head-bobbing thing, the air guitar thing, the whooping thing... (watching such spectacles reminds you of how interchangeable Canada's youth can be). And like Oasis, everyone in Canada wonders when the Tragically Hip are going to be huge in the States. It sounds awful, doesn't it?

The Tragically Hip are a better band then their fans would have led you to believe. They weren't always great, and much of the fault had to do with the sometimes excruciatingly plodding nature of the music. The band initially drew in many fans with the kind of mid-tempo driving rock that is such the rage these days. What made it all somewhat bearable was the strength of singer Gordon Downie's lyrics. Summoning up lost relics of Canadiana with a well-schooled English Lit degree, Downie had long since mastered the art of speaking, and singing wonderfully sideways.

Sometime during the recording of the band's self-produced last album, Trouble at the Henhouse, the musicians seemed to get it. Shedding mindless solos and pointless white-guy bluesy-chord progressions, Downie's band mates actually began to write and play music that served as a subtle backdrop of Downie's lyrical prowess.

Thankfully, their latest record continues that trend. The strongest tracks tend to the more downtempo numbers. "Bobcaygeon," with its subtle dreamy guitar backdrop would be a perfect summer back-porch song were it not for Downie's darkly unnerving lyrics about a vaguely brooding cop ("That night in Toronto, with the checkboard floors/ Riding on horseback and keeping order restored/ Till the men they couldn't hang/ Stepped to the mic and sang/ And their voice rang with that Aryan twang"). "Escape is at Hand for the Travelling Man" floats on a deliciously ghostly, haunted melody. Even upbeat rock bombasts like "Fireworks" work as well as a straight-up rock song can.

Of course, the Canadian landscape figures prominently in Downie's words and, naturally, none of you Yanks give a fuck. So I won't bore (or perhaps) confuse you with the details... only to say that if you like literate, well-thought-out, straight-up rock, you could do a whole lot worse than this horribly-named band. Or you could stick to your cheese sticks and fatty steaks and die from a clogged asshole. We Canadians could care less.