ΓΓé¼┼╜"Please stop comparing Ezra Furman to God. I know he is a great guy, but he's not Ezra Furman."


If youΓΓé¼Γäóre Ezra Furman, youΓΓé¼Γäóre right out of college and the man in the grey suit threatens to steal your soul, so you fend off encroaching suburbia with a batch of new tunes. On his second album of jittery, willfully naive folk-punk, Furman plays the alienated romantic geek, employing a wobbly sense of pitch to better effect than anyone since the early Violent Femmes. ΓΓé¼┼ôWe Should Fight,ΓΓé¼┬¥ the great howling mess of an opener, sets the tone, all raw guitars and protestations of uncompromising humanity. The rest of the songsΓΓé¼ΓÇ¥alternating between strident rockers and swooning balladsΓΓé¼ΓÇ¥are overwrought, goofy, achingly sincere and totally original. Even his failures are charmingly his own, like the damaged sea chantey that erupts in the middle of ΓΓé¼┼ôThe Dishwasher,ΓΓé¼┬¥ an otherwise meandering folk ballad. Real life will intrude soon enough for Furman. Thankfully, he appears committed to spending the interim bashing out songs, working on his poet-laureate credentials and celebrating the sheer, giddy wonder of being young and alive.