What may sound like calculated chaos on the first, or even fifth, listen is in fact a veiled, love-hurts-like-hell, career-affirming second album written from the perspective we all assume at our worst—stumbling, stammering and breaking shit while being comfortably numbed by five whiskeys on the rocks. The music is still loopy as hell, projecting the woozy pleasures of Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas as scored by homicidal pirates and punks (punk not because of patches or a sneer; punk because Man Man makes flutes and marimbas sound mean). Don't you dare call this carnie music written by Tom Waits, for Man Man is onto something completely of its own making at this point.