The Fiery Furnaces: Gallowbird's Bark

IT'S A HIGH-FALUTIN' seaside carnival from another time, where maidens don pinstripe stockings and pantaloons, click buckled shoes as they jitterbug with spry sailor gentleman and hardy landlubbers. It's cannonballing down a hill like a child and staining your knees with grass and mud before landing, flush-faced and giggling, in a crunchy bed of colorful autumn leaves. It's rolling rock clamoring back toward vaudeville, or Louisville, or anyplace other than the Brooklyn base the band call home. It's rocking roll, changing the terms of punk as well as the players, making shyness forceful, doing and undoing and doing again.