Most of what you and I do to ourselves all day long is not good for us and we all f-ing know it, don't we? We take little care of the only body we get and yet we do even less to right the ship. We can't help ourselves. We're f-ing idiots. We run ourselves down to the nub, feeling the pressure to make enough money, to survive out in the cold, cruel world and to look to look good doing it, but inevitably, we advance into our early 30s and already we get to feeling that the wheels are coming off the vessel and we're no better off than if we'd just done nothing but stop to smell the cut grass and watch the migrating birds. We're growing our paunches, the cellulite in our thick thighs starts to spread, our faces expand into rounder configurations of the looks that we used to sport and we start to comment about getting older as if we can physically feel the state setting in. We feel like shit. We stress ourselves out and we just go on sitting on our asses, for hours on end. We do little to make anything better. For instance, right now, this is happening: There's a glowing computer screen in front of me (when isn't there, right all of us?) and my right hand keeps unconsciously plunging into a bag of mesquite BBQ, kettle-cooked potato chips or grabbing a glass filled with Dr. Pepper in-between pecks on the computer. It feels awful, tastes delicious and will be the death of me someday - either that or a car accident. And as for remedies, anything that can offer us a term reversal for all of the damage that we willingly do to ourselves, there our options are few, once the toll has taken. We're left with empty hands and yellowing teeth, but Sebastian Krueger and his band Inlets are a real salve. You put on the Brooklyn group's debut, "Inter Arbiter," and you immediately your hairline coming back to you - proceeding, not receding. You will feel like you're adding years to your life and as if you've just eaten filling and agreeable salads for the last 100 meals you've eaten - as if you're at the feel-good peak of an all-body cleansing. Krueger dips us in the healing waters, the good waters, and we let them take us down. We go into them with all our clothes, our shoes, our sunglasses on. We just let it swallow us, for it's a feeling that's very unfamiliar. It bears a scent of citrus. It's a moisturized feeling. It's a relaxed feeling. It's like a sermon that we're hanging on every word. Krueger is a master wordsmith, smelting ideas together to make a very literary listen one that sneaks up on you like a fox. He sings about being about to "read at night, in the outdoor light," on "Bright Orange Air," and hearing him sing of it is relaxing enough. Krueger seems to make sure that all of the music he writes abides by the buttery, lamp-lit glow. It's of moonlight and of medicine.