Southern Comfort

There's a looseness here that the band doesn't always permit themselves — a dusty, unhurried quality that recalls roadside bars and late afternoon light through dirty windows. The guitar tone warms considerably, trading the caustic bite of their faster material for something more open and resonant, almost twangy at the edges. The rhythm section settles into a comfortable, slightly slouching groove rather than driving hard, and the whole track breathes in a way that feels like a conscious exhale. Cuomo's vocals take on a drawl-adjacent quality, the delivery unhurried and slightly blurred, which suits the song's subject matter — the particular numbness that comes from leaning on something that makes the edges softer but doesn't solve anything. There's no triumphalism in the song's relationship to its namesake, just the honest acknowledgment of what comfort-seeking looks like when it's slightly desperate. It occupies a space that some Midwestern bands drift into, a Southern rock influence filtered through an ironic, post-punk sensibility that keeps it from being romanticized. The song is best listened to in the early afternoon when you're supposed to be doing something else, the kind of hours that have no momentum, when the day hasn't become anything yet.