Plastic Nebraska‘s music instills in its listeners three things. One is often a sense of uncomfortable wonder mixed with empathic pity. A brow-furrowed head-tilted sick sad voyeurism. The other is a pasty, trancedancing introspective wiped on underneath a sly smile. The third is shared like a good couch on a winter movie night: It is the dichotomy of a vague certainty: “Why do I like this?” A slippery something wrapped up in your new favorite food that you’re lucky to get half of. Part of their fanbase fancies themselves thinkers, though they aren’t quite sure if it is not just pretension. The other half just likes to dance. The music steeps itself in deep emotion not well disguised as a plain utilitarian asphalt sidewalk. The dual lead vocals works like Siamese twins. Each wants to go somewhere separately, but they will of course end up in the same place. They pull, softly, so as not to tire themselves. They are very well aware of their predicament. One wants to go to the zoo, and one to the pool. So, together they go to the kwikee mart. They are most certainly not a unique mix of reggae, rock, cajun, country, zydeco and folk. Instead they are looked over and around, like a family of freaks on a blanket at a Dave Matthews concert. They are an embarrassing secret, that once shared with like afflicted, great comfort is taken, and regional support groups are formed. A time-release perception pill filled with goodies but coated with a sour bitter gelatin. The band has no particular philosophies to depart, for they do not understand their position to be of any importance. It is but a hobby to most of them, and it is this indifference that is so damn enjoyable to witness. They make the crowd come to them.