Good morning, Superchunk, On the Mouth. A kissing punch, lips that knock you back, apt analogy on an album that romances with vigor, extra-applied elbow grease on soft contours, fists wrapped in valentine red cellophane. Rapt rapture of old car window-down summer love singalongs, evening soft-serves indulged, finale fireworks of rainbow sprinkles and tactile crunch. The heat making pants legs stick and so eventually, removed.