I'm on an alt-country trip this week. Those Poor Bastards fit snugly into that odd sock. They play fuzzy tongue-in-cheek experimentation hillbilly hymns. If Hank Williams had sold his soul for a bottle of JD and a packet of cheap smokes and then hit the studio drunk, with a hooker at his side, he would have churned out something like this. Brooding and apocalyptic songs for everyone.