No, of course not. But I buy it anyway. The light is so perfect. It's long . I've committed myself to two hours and forty minutes, even if I listen just once, with a band I know only from a mildly pleasant song I heard half of while I was concentrating on traffic.
Records tolerate our obsessions.
I've known the Field Mice for two minutes, and they're already willing to spend a week with me, if I want. At three in the morning, when unconsciousness seems like death, I can't really phone the girl I danced with at a New Year's Eve party, but this record is sitting by my bed, three dozen songs that don't mind that I haven't learned any of their names yet. Records don't have busy lives with these brief moments into which they're willing to fit you, under carefully-prescribed conditions, after you promise to pretend you don't have poignantly groundless crushes on them. Every record is willing, at an instant's notice, to become your whole universe. These are just jangly pop songs, and you can't build a universe out of pop songs any more than you can build an igloo out of marbles.