The Roof sounds like a very dangerous place for Mr. Fretwell to position himself. On the tracks offered here he sounds either drunk enough to fall; close enough to a dreary sleep to collapse; or maudlin and despondent enough to jump. I can’t say I’d miss his music anyway. Gratingly introspective and annoyingly over-sincere, his restrained approach to playing gives him a lackadaisical and uninterested sound that more often than not completely fails to grasp for my attention. The only exception being recent single ‘Scar’ – a jaunty little number with a ramshackle elevation at its chorus and a vocal performance just on the right side of being too drunk or stoned. Further irritation is provided by a crass studio conversation (“that’s fucking genius, man, you’re a fucking genius”) tacked on to the end of the woeful ‘Saturday’. An album where even a song titled ‘William Shatner’s Dog’ doesn’t raise a smile isn’t on to a winner in my book, and I find it difficult to recommend. Unless you’re inclined to throw yourself off a building.