With country music undergoing a resurgence of sorts (the real country, not that homogenized Muzak-with-a-big-hat glopping up FM 106), a country-pop hybrid, along the lines of '70s hitmakers like the early Eagles, Poco, or Pure Prairie League seems an inevitable follow-up. (With early '80s synth-pop also scoring high on the nostalgia meter, someone needs to form a band called Pure Prairie Human League...or maybe not.) Buttercup pretty much fits that bill - although thankfully they've learned from the mistakes of those early bands, and look toward slightly less polished proponents of that sound, like the Flying Burrito Brothers, to avoid both excessive saccharine content and snarky hipster condescension. Make no mistake, though, this is still pretty sweet stuff: you've got your rich vocal harmonies, your weeping pedal steel, within a sense of songcraft more pop-rock than straight country. This isn't as dusty or "authentic" as alt-country stuff - it's more polished, but not past the point where all individuality is effaced. For one thing, the tunes have hooks: "A Fire," while its lyrics are just one side of sentimental, just latches on to your eardrums and won't let go. The mix of pedal steel and electric piano is similar to a Steely Dan song like "Pearl of the Quarter" (before that band went to graduate school in jazzology). This album also contains 1997's second good song called "Time Bomb" (The Old 97's have the other, even better one.) Chasing the sonic sweetness is an overall sense of melancholy, frustration, resignation, yet perseverance: a mood similar to your better country - and actually, your better pop, too.

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