Did you viddy the Beth Orton review over at Bitchfork last week? It sorta made me wanna jack off. Got the idea the writer might have been one-handed-surfing too: "Death of love is the constant, often oppressive theme of Comfort of Strangers, which gives these songs the feel of dark therapy, often so dour as to be claustrophobic. The sense of a lesson learned, however platitudinous ..." It's a frikkin pop album, for chrissakes. And 'dark therapy'? Sounds like a Depeche Mode album. Look: Just like Aimee Mann, or Chris Whitley, Orton is as talented as all get-out and about as exciting to listen to as a steam vent. And c'mon - if she hadn't initially thrown in some of the bloopy-bleepy to both offset her lackluster pipes and divert indie purists from the truth of her hippie folk songwriting, she sure wouldn't be getting carpet-munched, like this, by Pitchfork.
The only Orton I ever liked got brained with a hammer.