Impala

, quite simply, is at its most rudimentary. That is, the album finds -- the songwriter, singer, guitarist, and sole constant member of -- both developing some of the stark impressionism of his later albums and steadying his gaze on the deceptive simplicity with which he shines a light on his own heart. Or, as he lays it on in the opening lines: "Tonight I am gambling with my sentiment/Tonight I am losing in a crowded room/tonight I am down to my soul." The broad strokes that paints with guitar and voice (with occasional, strategic, and wonderfully economical drum and organ flourishes courtesy of frequent contributor ) suggest grand adventure. Bolder and more cocksure than the broken-hearted troubadour of subsequent (or consequent) records such as and , seems sure, even occasionally funky (as on ). 's from the same side of the songwriting tracks as or . From the opening, seven-plus-minute salvo of Spartan, 5 a.m. introspection of -- with its quiet rolling guitar and organ lines -- to the haunted, rustic trilogy that closes the album, the light that 's songwriting lets in is just enough to catch a glimpse of a sepia-toned, nearly forsaken nostalgia. It's beautiful, less-is-more , suggestive more of the hard-bitten folks populating the literary works of authors than any straight-talking, rhythmic strumming folky troubadour. By the time the dust settles, leaves a sense of longing hanging in the air. A lovely, peeling, chipped record of emotional decay. ~ Chris Handyside