This album was, simultaneously, both full of mood/vibe and completely devoid of it. A noticeable absence of rhythm presented a considerable hurdle, which the reviewer struggled and ultimately failed to overcome. The voice droned, lyrics unintelligible and vocal lines drawn out in excruciating non-smoker-fakes-it huskiness. The urge to open a beverage - an oft-trusted marker of musical enjoyment - relishing that sharp *crack* as the seal breaks, letting a little foam spray around and engaging in a brief display of conspicuous enthusiasm, became suddenly as abhorrent to the reviewer as it no doubt is to Joan when she's forced to ply her trade outside late-opening cafes - the nuanced smell of triple-malt whiskies replaced by the disgusting reek of pigswill lagers, the artiste herself at risk of the great unwashed asking her, in their infinite ignorance, about Norah Jones. A "punk" detour at some point failed to boost either my interest or the artiste's expected incoming indie cred. Simply put: while this album jazzily sneers at the audience in arrogant self-importance, in return it offers very little reward or thanks for listening. It demands respect without understanding the concept. It is, ultimately, a product of ego rather than love of craft. So I would take a squirty shit on a physical copy of this, right in front of Joan. And while doing that squirty shit, I'd say, "this is what I think of your artsy, jazzy, knockoff Norah Jones garbage". 1/5.