Sometimes you can be happy just to survive. The stories that Jack Savoretti tells are those that involve quite a good deal of aftermath. He sings to us with the tattered and chipped spirit of someone who has not just stared into the fires, but they've had their hands and whole arms shoved into them. They removed themselves and scooched back from the fires, but you can still pick up on that strong smell of BBQed meat that's coming from their forearms. There is splintered wood and broken glass in his songs. There are many wounded and lightly moaning people throughout, but they've roused themselves from their ragged states and they've insisted that they put a pot of coffee on and get some breakfast in themselves. They're going to keep going. They're going to think about sweeping up that broken glass and they're going to summon the strength to get sidetracked from the pain and numbness that they're feeling -- that they can't stop feeling. Savoretti brings what must be very vivid and autobiographical anecdotes into these searing, but understated songs of fending out there amongst the wolves and words. These are times of reflection, even when reflection will do no good whatsoever.