during his wilderness years, it's a pretty safe bet that it hasn't all been pleasant. With seven tracks and a running time of an hour, Gentlemen may seem like a daunting prospect, but the epic, rambling nature of these songs -- four of which clock in at over ten minutes - is what makes them so spellbinding. Raw and unrehearsed (the album was recorded in Berlin over the course of one weekend last year), Pearson often seems to be making it up as he goes along; his guitar-playing is careless but virtuosic, a mess of fudged finger-picking, jazzy touches and violently strummed flare-ups. Certain lines and phrases are repeated, but there are no clear cut structures, no bridges or choruses. Often, the songs draw to a close or simply break down, only for Pearson to suddenly remember he has more to say and strike back up. That songs so fractured seem to flow so freely speaks volumes about Pearson's state of mind. It's unclear how much is truly autobiographical and how much is Cohen-esque fiction, but the lyrics are so full of doubt, guilt, longing and loathing, with his many apparent faults -- infidelity, drinking and a quick temper - detailed frankly on a track-by-track basis, that you suspect it's mainly the former. Pearson knows he has done wrong, repeatedly, and that he is an impossible person to live with, but although he seems regretful there is little in the way of apology. When, on 'Sweetheart I Ain't Your Christ',