This past summer we made a savage pilgrimage to the center of the American maw: Rock Island, Illinois. The first thing we did when we got to Rock Island was eat the ever-living daylights out of some chicken salad sandwiches. Have sandwiches ever been laid waste to in such a vigorous manner? It is very unlikely.
The second thing we did when we got to Rock Island was record some songs at Daytrotter. Now, after a multi-month gestation period, the songs are ready to spring into the world like wheat grain being rapidly shot out of a threshing machine into the faces of unsuspecting passersby. Can passersby be anything except unsuspecting? We didn’t think so.