Record Rack

So he drives a Crown Victoria--that much you learn in the first two songs of this ribald Midwesterner’s debut. A couple of times around the block, and you learn Reilly is driving on Beck’s license, with Dylan in the passenger seat and a slightly tipsy bar band shouting instructions from the back seat.

It’s a wild ride. Reilly alternately rocks and raps, rants and reprimands, touring the scenes of urban demission and personal drudgery like the small-town-guy-came-to-Chicago he is. Whether you buy his sometimes-wry, sometimes-wise-guy commentary depends on whether you believe hyperbole belongs in every outsider’s arsenal.

His slatternly cast includes ideologue girlfriends, effete businessmen, blue-collar buddies, overzealous policemen and even Joe Strummer, who takes a shine to Reilly’s date on the buzzing “Hip-Hop Thighs #17.” Sophisticated production, including tinkling keyboards, horns and guitars ranging from fuzzed-out to searing to exploding, makes “Salesmen” as much an assemblage as an album. Reilly is throwing a lot against the wall here. Most of it shticks.

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Albums are rated on a scale of one star (poor), two stars (fair), three stars (good) and four stars (excellent). The albums are already released unless otherwise noted.