When I first heard Papas Fritas' self-titled debut, I imagined the trio were playing their cute little pop songs on tiny toy instruments. The album had an appealing, sugarcoated residue of unsullied innocence, with lyrics that either rang out like pep-rally battle cries for lovelorn teens ("Girls and boys should be as one!") or snuck in a teaspoon of strong medicine with the sugar, as on the euphoric say-yes-to-drugs "Holiday." There was nothing extraneous in the writing or production, which was suitably no-budget, and the melodies were craftily constructed—the handiwork of Talmudic pop scholars. You felt like you were entering a secret society of suburban nerds who wore pocket protectors and collected Jonathan... More >>>