By Dave Teeuwen
Imagine this: Bob Dylan picks up his guitar and plays Bruce Springsteen’s catalogue. Then, when he’s finished with that, he plays Tom Cochrane’s.
Matthew Ryan is a good songwriter, excellent with hooks and adequate with lyrics. But he’s cursed with mediocrity. This record catches your attention at first and then drops you off in a land of boredom somewhere around the end. He seems to be pining away for the days of musical yore, but he isn’t sure where he fits in.
On the whole, this album is bad, with few shining moments. "Sunk" is good, for instance.
In the end , Ryan is like fine wine: let it mature before you invest.