"Don’t you know that I cried in silence / I was too afraid to be saved by the hands that held me / I waited without hope / Without you, I lose myself...."

Uh... hey, Buddahead. Toad the Wet Sprocket and Dishwalla called. They want their sound back. Oh, and I called. I want my skin back, 'cause I just took a bath in napalm. You should have heard me scream. It was terrible. And, Jesus, did it burn. But, I mean, I really wanted people to understand what listening to your new record is like, and this about sums it up: bad lite rock, and relentless, epidermal burning.

Christ, dude. You even pulled two of the biggest, cheapest musical tricks in the book: lush string arrangements to emphasize how genuinely sad you are, and loud-- but not too loud, Heaven forbid-- distorted rock guitar, to emphasize your fleeting sense of triumph and self-confidence at times. Too bad you were adding these strings and guitar to really trite, bland pop tunes.

If you people like trauma units and early-Nineties flashback weekends on the radio, you’ll eat this shit up. But, if you like the 21st Century and quality, you’ll pass on this little Cleveland steamer.