Buried somewhere in the hour-long rubble of buzzed guitars, martial drums, shredded vocal cords, unsuspected string sections, skronking sax solos, and, uh, bagpipes that form NJ suburbanites Titus Andronicus’ second full-length record is a smart, smart album that’s sorta about how being smart doesn’t really count for shit. The Monitor, ostensibly named . . .
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