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It comes at you with its shirt half open, boots dirty, a drink somewhere too close to the edge of the table. Nothing seems particularly interested in behaving itself. The guitars scrape instead of shine, the room leaks into the songs, voices crack around the edges, and the whole thing carries that slightly dangerous warmth of people playing close enough to smell each other. That is probably why I love it so much. Not because it sounds “authentic” - a word already beaten to death by music writing - but because almost nothing here feels embarrassed by being obvious. A riff can simply be a riff. A joke can stay stupid. Anger does not need a footnote. Affection does not arrive wearing perfume. When something hurts, it hurts; when something is funny, somebody laughs; when the song wants to kick the door open, nobody stops to wonder whether kicking doors is still aesthetically relevant in 2026. The roughness helps, of course. It leaves fingerprints everywhere. You can hear bodies rather…