![]() With Steve Lillywhite doctoring Crenshaw's efficient trio until it booms and echoes like cannons in a cathedral, the production doesn't prove Marshall isn't retro, though he isn't. It's as sly and well-meaning as his love of girls. Brushing by the everyday phrases that are the stuff of pop songwriting-cynical girl, she can't dance, the usual thing-to add a twist or make an oblique point, Crenshaw captures a magic ur-adolescent innocence without acting the simp. This album seems simple because it is simple, yet it continues to unfold long after you believe its byways played out-not by exploiting the snazzy bridges and key changes of the traditional pop arsenal, but with lines repeated at odd junctures, choruses reentering when you anticipate another verse. ![]()
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