Supremely depressing, Colin Meloy. It’s like a very, very gloomy miniature version of one of those Victorian-era novels about how bad the world is. Like Charles Dickens or one of his imitators, who cast a light on the ugliness of society and the woes that befall unfortunate children. Woe upon the fallen woman, and woe upon the wastrel who did her wrong, and most of all, woe upon the child who has the misfortune of being theirs! And woe upon chimney sweeps! Such are the things The Decemberists like to write about, and thank goodness for it, for I have not the inclination to read an actual hefty Victorian novel, but I do like to have a small taste now and then, if only to remind myself of my own fortune at not having lived anywhere in the vicinity of the Industrial Revolution.