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By 1972, Buckley had grown so disenchanted with the music business and its commercial expectations that he composed this perverse opus as a mockery of that sleazy, bottom-line world. Bitterness seems to fuel many of the songs, which describe the sordid state L.A. had gotten into by the early '70s, stomping the already rotting corpse of flower power still further into the ground. Gone was Buckley the tender folkpoet, and in his place was a leering, libidinous lounge lizard who plied a slick funk-rock designed as a backdrop to makeout scenes. Tunes like "Move With Me" and "Get on Top" leave even less to the imagination than your favorite R. Kelly song. This being a Tim Buckley album, though, the songs are full of assured swing and deft melodic sense. Needless to say, Buckley sings the hell out of every tune, his voice gliding and swooping elegantly over the music. He may have lost his innocence by this point, but he clearly hadn't lost his touch.
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