It’s too cynical to say listening to this album makes me want to buy blue jeans or body wash or jump in the open back of a crowded jeep sporting some new sunglasses and sipping from some new, slightly fruit-imbued fizzy alcoholic beverage. I don’t say that as a bad thing. We need big rock, and The American Dream do it well. This is soundtrack music; the scope of the hooks is bigger than life, the riffs make your feet and head sway involuntarily. This is music for those large, faceless, unrecognizable crowds you see at festivals and shows, the mobs of people when you go out that make you wonder, “Where the hell did these people come from?” It’s the old line of how Nickelback has sold 20 million records, but you’ve never met one of them.