Die Pitchfork-Kritik triftt es, auch wenn die Kritikpunkte teilweise andere sind:
http://pitchfork.com/reviews/albums/20215-primrose-green/
But the trouble comes with Walker—the songwriter and singer, not the instrumentalist. For someone so obsessed with classic troubadours, he has a damning disregard for his own songs. He over-sings almost every part of this record, trying to match his heroes with an inadequate instrument. The screamed lover-boy exhortations of „Summer Dress“ are counterproductive at best, copycatting at worst. He treats every written syllable of „Sweet Satisfaction“ like a chance to slur a half-dozen of them, stretching words until it’s easier to ignore them. Walker’s lyrics read like a set of unfinished end-rhyme exercises by a college student who has just discovered the Beats. Smoking grass at night makes him feel „alright“; leaving his love, however cruel, would make him into a „fool.“
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Ohne Musik ist alles Leben ein Irrtum.