have always seemed like 's baby brothers, right down to their nonsensical numbers in the name, so it's only appropriate that they're also attempting to grow up just like -- or better still, a bit like and a bit like , who have proven to be the standard-bearers for how latter-day punks can grow a social conscience and become mature, as evidenced by . Sporting a similar-sounding but not as politically potent title in , 's fifth studio album extends upon its predecessor 's deliberate attempt at getting serious and relevant, giving the impression that they're telling a story, creating an anthem for the "underclass hero," the slacker who can't be labeled as an underachiever because he never attempts to achieve. The first couple songs here -- the fists-in-the-air wannabe anthem title track, the narcissistic self-loathing -- hit as hard as processed pedal distortion can, but (now down to a trio after the departure of guitarist ) soon abandon any larger narrative as they start to stretch out with acoustic guitars, keyboards, and harmonies uncannily reminiscent of 's . Despite these flashy accoutrements, don't want to be , they don't want to be , they don't even aspire to the mock the atmospherics of ; they want to be nothing more than predictable . Like all albums, is ingratiating and hooky enough to have momentum but not enough to linger in the memory. ~ Stephen Thomas Erlewine