It took me a long time to figure out why this band would name itself after a beer. They're not even punk hacks! No, they're just a bunch of guys-- seven guys and a girl, to be exact-- from New York or Hoboken, depending whom you talk to, who play nostalgic, pop-sensible rock. Sure, Champale is a good name for a beer, if only because you can pronounce it like "champagne" or like "champ ale." But for a band that's more likely to play on a rural back porch than in a frat house? Uhhh... no.

The road to enlightenment began with the purchase of a six-pack of Champale tall boys. This wasn't as easy as it sounds, though, as the beer has limited distribution. Maybe that was it: they want to be as obscure as the beer. I wasn't positive, so I soldiered on. When I finally got my hands on the sixer-- a little blue elf with pigtails and a lisp brought it to me-- I thought of something else. Apparently, Pabst Brewing Co. owns Champale, so maybe the band was hoping to rope in the pseudo-blue-collar indie hipsters who praise the Blue Ribbon.

I decided it was best not to think about it, so instead, I took a sip and hit play. "Oh no," I thought. "Not another male falsetto singing over slow, atmospheric rock!" "Hard to Be Easy" was crisp (like the beer), but I've encountered this style countless times before. And that chorus-- "I never thought it could be so hard to be easy"-- didn't go down well. I fought the gag reflex.

"Motel California," awful title aside, brought hope. At least here, as on much of Simple Days, all roads lead back to Big Star. Of course, it's more like the Jayhawks' slick version of Big Star, but at least it's not like the Eagles. "Paducah," meanwhile, is an obvious attempt at The Band's unique, laid-back country-rock, with Mark Rozzo dragging his voice just like Richard Manuel used to. I shrugged my shoulders and took another drink.

By "Black Telephone," I was onto my second tall boy and was starting to feel a buzz. This might explain why the cheesy soft sax and trumpet not only failed to annoy me, but actually instilled a desire to be in an airport lounge. But when I heard "Special Guest Star," I was pretty sure it was a very good, catchy pop song, even when heard entirely sober. The way it opens with jangly guitars and builds to acoustic strumming gave me the chills. Or maybe it was the cold can against my thigh.

I chugged the rest of my beer out of excitement, which wasn't such a good idea because "Dramamine" didn't cut it. The crude musical references in my head kept saying, "Cold one! Cold one!" So I cracked another beer. That's when I realized my brain was saying, "Coldplay! Coldplay!" Actually, with those horns, it sounded more like Coldplay covering Archer Prewitt. I don't remember if I got the brain freeze before or after polishing of the third 16-ouncer. All I know is that I was becomingly increasingly intoxicated and my headache only got worse with "'68 Comeback," which resembled Travis more than Coldplay.

Okay, I must have been really drunk if I thought there was difference between those two bands. With "See You Around," though, the buzz turned around. I was jamming to the glockenspiel, humming along to Rozzo's sing-song vocals, when I realized I really had to piss. By the time I came back, there was this near-punk song on. Rozzo was singing all rawkish, and the band was chugging along thick and steady. So I cracked another beer and worked up a froth.

Things get a little fuzzy after that. "Change Your Life" is another Big Star rocker, with lines like, "Change your life/ 'Cause this one's killing you/ Change your life/ It's what you gotta do." I think he even refers to a "Kool-Aid smile," but I don't think I minded it at all. Nor was I bothered by the closer, a blur of E-Z jazz rock with which I had a one-night stand: it seemed attractive at the time, but it just grossed me out the morning after.

I did like that song at the time, I'm quite sure. I even remember standing up and making two simultaneous toasts. "To Champale!" I yelled, holding my final beer aloft. But only the silent stereo speakers witnessed the salute. At some point after that, I passed out and dreamed of hairy women in fuzzy blue bikinis. They were dropping Prozac pills in their beers as if it were Alka-Seltzer.

-Ryan Kearney