With former Engine Alley skinthumper Emmaline Duffy-Fallon out, and a full-time violinist (Sheila Sullivan) and backing vocalist (Veronika Megyeri) in, it's a new (and improved?) Racketeers on this, their second album. The focus of the band is unchanged, though, with Eamonn Dowd continuing to write his beer-stained odyseys with the same alcohol-fuelled panache as on their debut, By Hook Or By Crook.

The inspiration for the songs remains the same, with Dowd cataloguing the whiskey-soaked dreams of the universal barfly. The Racketeers don't sound like an Irish band, which could be something to do with the fact that they spend most of their time gigging away from these shores. Judging by Long Time Gone, that's no bad thing.

It's a brave move opening an album with three songs that each weigh in at over six minutes, but it works. There's nothing new or particularly original in their blend of old-fashioned American guitar rock and country-tinged balladry, but they do it very well.

Neil Young is an obvious reference point for the opening 'Woke Up Monday Morning', as the guitars shimmer and shine in a manner reminiscent of the Canadian genius, although the chorus is a tad on the shouty side. 'Cortez The Killer' eat your heart out!

Dowd's vocals have an indecently gritty quality - he sounds like he's lived the lifestyle he portrays so well on tracks like the wonderful 'Midsummer's Eve' where he pours his heart out along with his bourbon, "Here we are, another Tuesday night/ Seven drinks down, I still feel uptight", his voice providing a passable impression of a younger Van Morrison.

'Rumours Down Town' showcases his gravelly tones to perfection, as he admits, "I'm always remembering things that don't matter at all/ All these useless memories have been my downfall." These are the dreams of the downtrodden, the hopes of the dishevelled.

'I Never Knew' tears at the cockles of the heart, as Dowd narrates the lovelorn aspirations of the barstool poet who has "been going out every single night, wandering from pillar to post". There's an honesty here too, though: this is one drunk who knows where he's at. 'Don't Depend On Me' he warns a would-be lover on the closing track, as the curtain falls once more on his bar at the end of time.

Welcome to Losersville: pull up a pew and a bottle and settle right in.