Windsor For The Derby
How We Lost
Secretly Canadian
*** (3.5/5.0)
    I’m sitting 25 rows back, just behind the plane’s wings, where I imagine the fuselage is most prone to breaking in half. If we crash the folks in first class will die first. I picture a nosedive and their recliners and personal TVs becoming shrapnel, or else pin broken body parts to burning carpet. It’s not some manner of classism that has me thinking this, no no, but it may have something to do with the two sweaty businessmen I’m wedged in between and how I feel the need to tell myself that if the plane crashes I’ll at least have a few more seconds of living than those poor slobs up front with all their legroom and cocktails.
    From here I see TV monitors jutting down from the ceiling every eight feet or so and in the terrible movie that’s on there are 13 identical Robin Williamses, each smaller than the last but moving in perfect unison, each with a cowboy hat and pointy villain’s sideburns. For a moment, I want the plane to crash into a mountain but I don’t know whether I’d want to be a survivor. I hope, however, that Windsor For The Derby will continue to make lush and pretty albums like this. Robin Williams, on the other hand, should be made aware that he’s like Kryptonite for anything remotely entertaining.—Andreas Trolf