A review by Sean Nelson that appeared in Alternative Press at some point in 1997…

Edith Frost’s songwriting is the kind of simple that the word "deceptively" was made to modify. The music takes time and patience to appreciate it, and it offers scant frills — no clever phrase-turns; no big fat hooks; no ironic intrusions. It’s simple, subtle music whose impact lies in the tiniest changes, the colors of the chords, the tastefully dissonant organ in the background, the chilling strings almost hidden in the mix that rise up to shadow Frost’s dry, twangy voice. The feeling isn’t about the artist’s therapy; it resonates in the listener. Never resorting to overt emotionality, Frost suggests feeling, like the best minimalists must, and we respond.

On a casual listen, it might be mistaken for an affectless posture, a Western slant on the current indie-country trend, or just a boring bunch of songs. But it’s as gripping as Liz Phair’s Girlysounds, as metamorphosed and grown up. Frost’s voice, as well as some of her guitar work, is reminiscent of Phair, but more demure. She evokes the campfire ethos of Western folk, with dusty old acoustic guitar and a lone voice providing the framework for what emerges as a completely contemporary context.