A lone figure in a wide brimmed black hat appears just over the skyline. His long and dark leather jacket blows in the breeze, flowing with the dusty desert wind and yet unperturbed by it, a man who transcends . The silver glint of his revolvers, one-a-side dutifully attached to his hip as they have been for over a decade, catch the glint of the high noon sun. That silver reflection is blinding and fills you with dread but at the same time you are unable to peel your gaze away. His presence is a Siren song. It is your demise, and yet it feels like your salvation.
As tumbleweeds roll by avoiding his path he ambles down the dusty road running through Main Street. Saloon doors close abruptly, the stool that previously housed a piano player playing a ragtime tune only minutes earlier suddenly vacant, with patrons nowhere to be found. As storm clouds black as night roll in and blot out the sun you catch sight of the scar over his left eye. It splits his eyebrow in half, running up to the midpoint of his forehead. And as he turns to look at you, his gaze both piercing and detached at the same time, The Devil Arrives begins to play from that vacant piano.
That’s what this album sounds like.
Standout Songs: “The Devil Arrives”, “Bandit Cult”, “Canyon Wizard”
