Ditto for this follow-up. Where once Murdoch spoke for entire classes of unhappy youth, now all he speaks for is his own taste in pop circa 1967-'72, a fascination with small-fry outsiders, and a religiosity that seems more sympathetic to doubt than faith. Luckily, he has the rare smarts and talent to make these obsessions speak for him too. A couple of numbers merely ape Curtis Mayfield and Sly Stone, but he rides early Bowie, late Motown, and classic T-Rex as if he invented them, with lyrics that belie the music's simple rush with their sharp portraits, framed by the confounding mysteries of life that hook us all in the end.
