For those willing to look, there was always something deeper than the flip-flops, Old English tattoos and shitkicker Oakleys. If the self-titled album belonged to the world, 40oz. to Freedom belonged to Long Beach, to Los Angeles, to California. It invents its own wild dialect, drunk driving with a shaggy genius often lost in translation, a goofball series of obscene surprises, soundtracking a house party that never ends, always in danger of getting busted up.
