So I was driving home in my pick-up truck after a hard day at work. After a double shift of lifting heavy objects and putting rivets into things at the salt mine/steel mill/machine-tool factory, I like nothing more than to curl up... uh, I mean to crash out in my arm chair with a cold beer, a pack of unfiltered Marlboro Reds, and an entire slab of beef. Beer in hand, cigarette dangling from the corner of my mouth, and guts packed with digesting cow meat, I flip on the T.V. and watch football, or Nascar, or perhaps a monster truck rally, thinking very manly thoughts all the while.

But last night when I returned home, drenched head-to-toe in the sweat and grime of my manful labor, I found a package waiting for me from Suburban Horror. Opening it up, I discovered "Learn to Love," the latest album from Chicago singer-songwriter, Amanda Sena. Perusing the cover, my lips curled into a disdainful sneer and I muttered something appropriately misogynistic. Having thus girded myself in masculinity, I placed the CD into my stereo and prepared to write the review.

After even just a cursory listen, I could hear that Sena has a style that fits comfortably within the genre of guitar-pop without being a slave to its limitations. There's a dynamism and ambition to her songwriting evident from the opening track, "'Till January," with its rambling mandolin that seems to do its level best to skitter out ahead of the rest of the instruments during the chorus, building towards a rollicking country break-down at the song's end.

I felt momentarily troubled. Rushing from my living room, I ran out to the garage, grabbed my tools, and built a second story to my house, screaming the lyrics to Slayer's entire "Reign in Blood" album while I worked. Exhausted, I returned to my armchair to give the album another listen, confident that I would be able to resist the bouncy melodies and Sena's powerful, pitch-perfect vocals.

But I was wrong. Dead wrong. Before I knew it, I was snagged on the "oh-ohs" in the refrain of "Upstairs." There's real ingenuity in the way that she alters the timing of her lyrics over the strumming of her acoustic guitar. In true pop fashion, the songs tend to center around the timeless themes of love lost and found. I didn't necessarily come away from the album with a deeper insight into the human condition, but Sena manages some clever turns of phrase that once again put her out ahead of many of her contemporaries. One of my favorite lines comes from the title track: "So I wrote myself a poem and it said just how I felt/and I read it to myself at the end/then I wrote myself a song, the same poem with ‘la la la'/so I can sing it again and again."

"What it's like to Cry" and "Tell Her I Love Her" showcase the harder-rocking side of the band, and while the songs are enjoyable, it's the more subdued tracks that best demonstrate Sena's songwriting talents. The album closes down with the outstanding "Best Kept Secret," a breezy, country-soaked tune replete with finger-snaps, slide guitar, and an absolutely devastating trumpet.

So there you have it, a powerful set of guitar-pop by a talented, up-and-coming songwriter. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go and build a car out of dirt.