Tilotta's guitar dominates the songs; his Guy Picciotto-esque melody lines and Mike Watt-esque song structures are what save Small Stones from Cacciola's uninteresting vocals, which add nothing to the songs. At times, the songs would do better without her vocals at all. One finds oneself listening solely to the way Fleisig's drums play off the guitar (not too loud, just the right amount of cymbal) and ignoring the vocals completely, to the point that the same guitar sound employed by Tilotta gets old by the end of the album; the lyrics, whatever they may be, are lost amid the crunch and high hat. Small Stones, like an expanse of graveled front yard on Tucson's eastside, is economical, although there are some pebbles that keep finding their way onto the sidewalk or inside one's shoes.
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