Pop music should make us feel as if the whole future depends on this one moment. When the band is too focused on sounding good and writing the perfect song, it never really gets there. Our guide through this dark land is Arrington de Dionyso, who wails about beasties and burning with the gut-rot growl of a drunken preacher. Devilishly atonal proto-blues shuffles and muffled splats of percussion meet us down at the crossroads. Occasionally, we're also joined by squealing saxophone and twanging jaw harp.
Salvation is unthinkable.
Damnation is inevitable. The end is nearer than we think. Instead of fighting it, or vainly praying for mercy, we may as well accept our fate, surrender our souls to Old Time Relijun and get our kicks on Route 666. At a typical soggy keg party more than 10 years ago, I lost all interest in the blues. At that moment I watched the blues drop dead on a floor strewn with cracked plastic cups.