The other day when I was booking a hotel room in Marblehead, I told the innkeeper over the phone that I was just looking for something simple. I was just one guy and I didn't need anything fancy, just something that would be accommodating and modest - something that wasn't too much. She rattled off a few of the rooms that were available. She described the first two as small-ish, but they had flat-screen TVs. Then she told me that those were probably my best options as the rest of the rooms all had Jacuzzis and shit like that. Along with those amenities, obviously, there was a premium to pay. The problem is, I got here and started listening to Dog Bite music and I was overcome with an incredible need for a Jacuzzi. The wrong room was chosen and the wrong criteria was consulted when choosing a room.With Dog Bite, Phil Jones has written songs that are filled with the sticky kind of humidity that boiled up from just below your chin and flows up to your cheeks, but never gets much further. You've got your head exposed and from the mid-cheek on down, you're cooking, with bubbles lapping up against your jowls. You're just in for a solid roast and you're good with it. It doesn't feel clean, but it feels hot and that's what you signed up for. Dog Bite songs remind you of what you've signed up for when you've dunked yourself into a Jacuzzi. You're there for some steamy relaxation, for a rumbly sit, for something of an undistinguished grab of leisure time. You're trying not to talk too much, but rather just sit there and soak it all up, to let the weird bath work itself all over you.