Whisky music, beer music, wine music. If you’ve come across Lucinda before, you’ll know which one this album is. She says she wrote it at her kitchen table in California but you can’t really imagine her sitting at a kitchen table. Or in California. On beds in musty, stained mid-West motel rooms, on stools in deep blue Southern bars, in beat-up Chevys in the dusty Badlands, bottle in hand, yeah, you can imagine that: sitting there, broodingly, waiting, lost but still emotionally predatory. And you can imagine her- yeah- struggling to her feet, beaten and bloodied but on the move again, off on the endless search, guitar-on-back, lusting, yearning . . .