Itâ€™s already been established (see below) that I canâ€™t even attempt neutrality when talking about Neko Case. Iâ€™m in love with her, plain and simple. Iâ€™m married, but I think even my wife understands, or at least as much as I can understand her love for Zach Braff. But donâ€™t let my bald adoration turn you away, because itâ€™s Nekoâ€™s mind you should love, man. Her mastery of lyrical storytelling is nearly in a league with Johnny Cash, Loretta Lynne, Emmylou Harris, and Willie Nelson, and â€œnearlyâ€ only because she hasnâ€™t been around as long. The angelic tenor of her voice, rendered with a ballroom echo, is sublime, and the stories themselves possess the exquisite detail and suspense, the juxtaposition of familiarity and esoteric conceit, of the finest Flannery Oâ€™ Connor tales. And donâ€™t forget that, lest you complain (and, really, itâ€™s the only complaint Iâ€™ll accept about my beloved) that the sonic similarities between tracks is a hair too close, Neko is pushing the boundaries of American roots music by night while she and the New Pornographers keep inching toward the perfect pop song by day. Iâ€™m well aware that this is the kind of adoring write-up that could come back to haunt me. Oh well. Love makes us do crazy things.