These days the kids are getting cleverer and folks are getting more vigilante. It's not nearly enough to merely imitate or emulate – at least in success terms. Everything's that little bit more/less safe and people know exactly what they need to do to make a buck. Therefore you know exactly what not to do if you want to be taken seriously. And loved. Remember what it was to hear that snarl: the dirt and grime emanating from that rotten, red-necked gorge of yore. It was beautiful.

Future eX Wife are headed way out the mid-West state of Sheffield into a section of your personae where gritted teeth graze your eyebrow and flecks of spit curse upon your shoes. The hate comes through - all the way through.

An anti-feeble ire that doesn’t just flop about the floor hoping for some inane sympathy, clearly signals its intentions and poses its questions in ‘Bourbon’. It is short. It is to the point. You can feel the three day stubble growth burning your thighs. You hit repeat and then again during ‘Six6City’ - it feels not unfamiliar and not unkind. This is Americana that hit town before Cobain Band rolled through and before you’re evem thinking about it, ‘Ebony’ doesn’t allow you to leave that Desert. These Sessions will stay grimy and ingrained in everything you held dear.

Whilst everything thuds, snarls, pounds, and screams at you, you struggle to discern the differentials before you. This is what happens when good bands happen. It’s not an accident. And non-accidents happen far too infrequently for you to ignore.

My future ex-wife is a French artist/actress-type. She is beautiful. She loved me at one point. A lot. There’s something about this record that can never love you. You will hate it to death. And it won’t even rake the autumn leaves over your rancid insides which lay scattered across the asphalt.