And the lyrics still occasionally seem like they were cobbled together by slicing up the inner sleeves of a couple dozen classic albums and pulling the resulting slips at random out of rusty steel bucket. Geils Band groove on “Biloxi Parish.” The thunderous riffs of “Too Much Blood” even call to mind a mid-1970s plodder from the likes of Deep Purple or Mountain. There’s a Tom Petty prowl to “Keepsake” and a J. Sometimes it seems that the band is trying to condense everything they love from the local classic rock station onto a single record. Some of the air of permanence comes from the way the band leans on the music of the past. With every note, the Gaslight Anthem aims to convince that they’re built to last. They merge sharp rock hooks with punk attitude and brashness in a manner that recalls Rocket from the Crypt in the San Diego band’s heyday, but without the fleeting, flaring quality. The Gaslight Anthem might be the last band out there that still believes in the capability of a great song on the radio to change the world, or, just as likely, make a person not care that the world has settled into an unyielding stasis. “ Pull it out, turn it up, what’s your favorite song?/ That’s mine, I’ve been crying to it since I was young,” is the opening to the title cut, explicitly naming the conviction and commitment to music as a vital lifeblood that resonates across the album. Whether or not the Gaslight Anthem can take the next step up in popularity remains to be seen, but Handwritten certainly pops from the speakers with an edgy urgency to appeal to the head-bobbing, fist-pumping masses. The Gaslight Anthem essentially sound like The Boss at the time of The River in 1980, still grounded in the humble toil of an up-and-comer while scratching idly at the happy rock bombast reserved for the biggest of superstars. On the band’s fourth album and first for major label Mercury Records, Handwritten, the comparison remains apt: lead singer Brian Fallon’s earnest rasp infuses every line with yearning emotion and the music is somehow calibrated to have both a finely honed directness suited for the intimacy of dingy little rock clubs and an audacious hugeness that could easily shake the rafters of a stadium. There’s no getting around it, is there? It’s practically impossible to write about (or talk about or think about) the Gaslight Anthem without invoking the blue-collar bard of New Jersey, Bruce Springsteen.
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