I really wanted to love bluegrass; I really did. It helped me think I didn’t actually avoid country music, just commercial country music. Or electric country music (or some other arbitrary distinction). That was before the Washington, D.C., N.P.R. affiliate would play 12 straight hours of bluegrass on the weekends and my constitution for folksyism was crushed under the weight of that much nasal twang. Ever since, every time I heard a banjo I might think it made a nifty accompaniment, but knew I could never go back. Now, when I happen to find this bluegrass tribute to Modest Mouse, I feel a bit torn. Part of me enjoys the folksy demeanor and even think it might be swell, and the other half shivers every time they replace curse words with lilted, non-offensive quaintness.