There's a particular sort of mental gymnastic routine that music critics must bust out when we're considering new works from old idols: Is it really that good? Or do I just want it to be that good? We, as a profession, have heaped so much praise on so many late-period Bob Dylan albums, and some of us don't want to get caught again in the act of hero-worship. So a great album from someone who's already made plenty of great albums somehow gets more scrutiny than a great album from someone who's just showed up, fresh and scrubbed. That's where we schizophrenically force our fan-brains and our critic-brains into different channels. As a fan, I am extremely psyched to hear every new Rancid album. As a critic, I have to acknowledge, to myself and to the world, that Rancid haven't done anything truly transcendent since Life Won't Wait, or maybe since Indestructible. As a fan, I love Bun B like he was my own uncle. As a critic, I snorted out loud when The Source gave five mics to Trill OG.