Written and Recorded in March 2023 in Jack London’s Childhood Shack. Next to all the chained down dog bowls and spoons.
It’s 2023. Who cares what you call your EP? Or your songs for that matter. All that matters is the practice. Maybe that’s all that has ever mattered, in music or anything. B. Hamilton understands this, and you can tell because the poetry pours out in fountains from their latest four-track work given the unwieldy title I would give songs numbers instead of names if I could. I can? Ok. Here I go, but not really. Dusty, chugging country rock, the songs here just roll along like a train ride through the West, repeating riffs and drumbeats that sink deeper and deeper into your heart with time. Highlights are “Six Brown Eyes in Bakersfield” (with the choice lyric “don’t call your father ‘daddy’ that’s just gross / and don’t blame him for the dumb that shit that you do”) plus closing track “That French Guy on the Jazz,” which turns up the fuzzy distortion and skips into the sunset.
