I once had a roommate from Pennsylvania. "Schnapps for colds, gin for
the flu!" was his rally call for the ailing, and he told horrifying
stories of routine beatings and driving under the influence of
everything under the sun. Nice enough, but he -- and by extension,
Pennsylvania -- scares the hell out of me. Philly's Cynthia Mason is
starting to change my impression. From the gentle plucking and soft
strings of "'95" to the wallowing, distorted guitars of "2 Cents Turned
to Billions," Mason's placid delivery and appealing production have
lulled me into believing Pennsylvania is a modern-day utopia with
mood-lighting. I might just head back East for my old roomie's wedding.