Cynthia G. Mason



    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.