Saturday, November 19, 2005

Evan's Fingers Be Lightning, John's Drums Be a Cannon, and Kyle's Bass Blows Our Collective Asses Out

An acrid pall is hanging over our basement, thick with a loathesome doom. It smells of beer, melted tubes and fire. Like a war. Like a firefight. The whole house is hemorrhaging sound as Midnight Special rocks the revolution.

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