Sex On Fire
They’re just pissing it out now. You want grand, brooding melancholy slashed with moments of surging white heat? Nae problem, Caleb’ll whip you up something this afternoon. It helps that he’s the personification of every myth about inarticulate, unreconstructed backwoods males having hearts the size of footballs and that his primal yawl has once again made some lyrics about motorway BJs sound like a deathbed soliloquy. But to return to the fray with something as good as this, only minutes after the end of touring ‘Because Of The Times’? When you’re hot you’re hot. And the Kings are on fire.