A (2004)

"This music, designed to resist classification, is basically (horrors) indie rock, except with a crooning pianist at the helm. Stop before you imagine Ben Folds: everything here is solemn and slow, and glistens with analog reverb. Shoegazing, with wing-tip shoes. The lyrics appear fittingly sad and literate....Cass McCombs is an intriguing man. His songwriting abilities are undeniable but weirdly de-emphasized. His reedy voice is either awfully affected or poised to become one of our Great Acquired Tastes alongside Robert Smith's meow and Stephen Malkmus's yawn. A, while a fine album, is full of head-scratching choices; just as its harsh lyrics policy can't be explained by financial reasons (the inside of the CD booklet is wasted on a large Pollockian doodle), some of the production touches are just as odd. But it does make you suspect that we're dealing with a genius-- one that has yet to be properly framed." (Pitchfork)