"[A record of] exquisite melancholy and parched charm...[Prewitt] is an individual of impeccable and idiosyncratic tastes, who has crafted an album that recalls the sorrow of Nick Drake and the intricacies of Felt; a man prone to sadness, but not to writing love songs; a musician who strolls through the outlying fields of Chicago, orchestrating trumpets in his head and pondering the meaning of it all. He writes songs of scuffed beauty and astonishing originality." - James Oldham, NME