Matt Keating falls somewhere between a slacker Violent Femmes and a more hungry, bitter Matthew Sweet. He bears a keen edge of cynical, disaffected ennui – pointed and biting, but pulling back from the brink of outright whining, serving up a cold dish camouflaged by the heat of a good tune. Guitars alternately chime with semi-acoustic Beatle-esque seduction, or slash in full electric anger. – Roch Parisien