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Having said all there is to say about songs the one remaining soul from the lost days of last centuries quelled rebellion and poetic wonder recorded these songs in a fit of junkyard passion feeling summaried and white complete in a disused railway carriage at the rear of the house, in one day, or days to that effect and with one guitar and various harmonicas. The sort of music that starts out as a full on assault on the cerebral and feels like having dangled feet over train stations edges hoping the train don't come. The train don't come but the music plays like the farmers wife, the misplaced television announcer, the shouting cow. The take on the blues is the redemption trains utilisation of the instraments of the current and the past like cyclones slap and redemptions promise to trade gauntlet for pen, pick it up to write and put it down again and to make various and obvious demands that make you feel, for the moment, like you're in the right place. The right place is just what