In early September, Andrew and Charlie drove east from (all so-called's) Tucson and Prescott, AZ; Lane drove west from Brooklyn, NY; and they met in Farmington, MO. Kinda halfway between. Long drives, both. Different, but both long.
For two weeks, they wrote and recorded new material–songs about fleeing repressive and dictatorial regimes, coping with extreme weather events by observing superstitious ritual, con artistry, robot churches, and–of course–something about a boat swallowed by precarity. They were replete moments.
Now, back in home places, the three are mixing, embellishing, revisiting new mythologies. Singing, strumming, thwapping, plunking to fulfill the gloomy, glossy dream of that time in the midwestern section of this so-called country.
The album will likely not be titled Frogs Don't Have Hair.