Slippery and lithe, every song is brought to life with twarps, boings, the sound of Simon scratching his beard. He starts with heartfelt coffin-side counsel and follows that with his best song ever, in which the sound of a couple fucking in the next room sets the narrator off on a reverie about losing his virginity that starts with his birth, takes in the major points of his life, and finishes by cheekily thanking the Lord for his fingers (yes, I'm reading this salaciously). The motel room he's staying in never features again, but we never leave it. Elsewhere, he finds the perfect balance of high- and lowbrow literary chops on songs about addiction, burnout, political deception, industrial collapse, marriage collapse, and a gloriously silly story about absolutely nothing--just a framework on which to hang witty rhymes and elasticated rhythms.