The Heat

1	Mona Lisa 2:45
2	Swinging Man 4:07
3	Silver Manhattan 4:33
4	Arrested 4:02
5	Since You're in Love 4:05
6	Going Out West 2:23
7	Scars of Love 3:26
8	New World Order 3:04
9	About You 4:04
10	Block Island 4:32
11	Basement Home 2:53
12	Hotel Columbia 3:24
13	Indian Summer 3:22
14	God's Lonely People 4:12

Barnes & Noble

On this, his second album since splitting glitter-punk veterans D Generation, this dyed-in-the-wool New Yorker makes a bid for the title of the Big Apple's back-alley bard. Malin doesn't shy away from wearing his allegiances on his sleeve, as evidenced by the haunting, feedback-tinged "Silver Manhattan" and the lulling "Block Island," a simple acoustic ballad set on the titular plot of land, a longtime getaway for New York's city dwellers. Elsewhere, he conjures up ghosts of Gotham past in a sonic sense, as on the gentle-but-insistent "Mona Lisa," which grafts a Velvet Underground–esque story line onto an airy melody reminiscent of the Rascals. The Heat isn't merely a travelogue, though. Malin has constructed something of a song cycle about lost romance and attempted recovery -- something that's a bit of a struggle, judging by the dissolute tenor of songs like "Since You're in Love." He manages, however, to sneak in enough survivor's anthems, such as the wizened "About You," to keep total darkness from descending. A passel of his better-known friends -- Ryan Adams and Pete Yorn, to name two -- pitch in here and there, but there's no denying that Malin himself is responsible for bringing the heat to The Heat. David Sprague

All Music Guide

With New York City in his back pocket once again, Jesse Malin continues his serenade to lost loves and forgotten opportunities on his second album, The Heat. He kicks his best buddy, Ryan Adams, out of the production seat to take care of things himself and once more cuts apart his honest heart. Isn't that why most become musicians, to deal with the fear of loss and regret? Their wounded soul becomes their art and a way of dealing with the bad hand they got dealt. It's good therapy for most artists and a cold-water cure for a lot of music fans, but relying on that formula itself doesn't automatically make a great record. The Heat goes through the motions of telling stories and Malin is a charmer with his self-pitying poetics. Songs such as the false sexual gratification of "Arrested," the rompish skip and run of "Mona Lisa," and the haunted political errors of "New World Order" are loaded in affection and raw roots rock. Malin's drag racer-like desire to find some kind of solace with love is even more fierce on "Hotel Columbia," an excellent piano-guitar dalliance that never lets up. But no matter how much The Heat yearns for common ground, Malin's songwriting suffers somewhat. He's skilled and inventive with his work as a musician, but the aches and pains of songs like "Swinging Man" and "God's Lonely People" fall short of what Malin delivered on The Fine Art of Self-Destruction. It's as if he's reaching for something, but uncertain of what he's supposed to be reaching for. That's okay. The Heat is only Malin's second album and shouldn't be categorized as a slump. Sonically, he's progressing into a real cowboy balladeer without dismissing his punk days. The desperation of "Since You're in Love" makes this evident; however, lyrics like "I'm still sad over you" aren't poignant enough. Malin has what it takes to write a really beautiful love song, one full of love's usual blood and guts. Perhaps he's terrified -- like most people are -- of owning up to the fear of losing it or never having it? MacKenzie Wilson

Rolling Stone

The Heat is liberation time: sharply drawn slices of naked-city life, rich in scarred guitars and made vivid and personal by Malin's cutting East Village-barfly yowl. David Fricke