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'd probably have churned out something like this. It's brooding and apocalyptic songs for everyone.