Released: August 20, 1991
Pocket Full of Kryptonite doesn’t present itself as a moment of arrival. It feels more like a band settling into motion and realizing the movement itself is enough. From “Jimmy Olsen’s Blues,” the album establishes a loose, conversational gait—bass and drums locking into a groove that feels elastic rather than rigid. Nothing is pushed to the front. The record opens by finding its footing, then staying there.
“What Time Is It?” keeps that footing intact. The rhythm stretches without drifting, guitars snapping in and out of focus while the groove remains central. The song doesn’t build toward a payoff. It sustains a feeling—easy, unforced, and slightly sideways. That sustain becomes the album’s defining trait.
“Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong” sharpens the edges without changing the posture. The track is direct and confident, but it doesn’t overpower what surrounds it. Even here, the band resists polish in favor of feel. The song moves because it’s comfortable moving, not because it needs to prove momentum.
As the album unfolds, tracks like “Forty or Fifty?” and “Refrigerator Car” deepen that sense of ease. They stretch time rather than compress it, letting grooves repeat long enough to feel lived-in. Memory forms here through rhythm—how the songs settle into the body before they settle into the mind.
“More Than She Knows” and “Two Princes” arrive without disrupting the flow. The familiarity of the latter doesn’t elevate it above the album; it blends into it. The song’s staying power comes from how naturally it sits inside the record’s broader movement. It doesn’t stand apart. It belongs.
“Off My Line” and “How Could You Want Him (When You Know You Could Have Me?)” keep the album turning inward, favoring feel over emphasis. The vocals never dominate. They ride the groove, conversational and close, reinforcing the sense that this is music meant to be shared casually rather than delivered.
Late-album moments like “Shinbone Alley / Hard to Exist” stretch the record’s range without fracturing it. The song drifts and tightens in turns, but always returns to the same rhythmic center. Even as ideas shift, the album’s pulse remains steady. When Pocket Full of Kryptonite ends, it doesn’t resolve or summarize. It simply steps out of motion, leaving the listener in the same relaxed space where the record has lived all along.
Production across Pocket Full of Kryptonite is warm and unforced. Instruments are clear but not separated, giving the album a room-like quality. You can hear the band playing together, not assembling parts. That cohesion is what allows the album to age gently rather than date itself sharply.
Pocket Full of Kryptonite doesn’t rely on contrast or spectacle. It trusts rhythm, comfort, and repetition. The album matters because it captured a band in sync with itself, letting grooves stretch just long enough to feel natural. It holds because it never rushes to be anything other than what it already is.
Written by Rob Joncas for DeadNoteMedia.
Artist information and music courtesy of the band.
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