Essentially, these rippers, high-pitch pulse busters get at the American grit, the good and bad days, all the ways we survive the strain. Lines that cut to the truth of any heart-beat, on the scrapin’ end of the livin’ grind — that flash of universal beauty that compels any laggard of love to sit in the still, layback and feel the pure grooves of their spirit, repine a crooked smile, and howl laughter like a lone coyote at the lousy minstrels of misery, they just can’t accept the fact the we are all brief breaths, and the soul won’t be trapped by restrictions of temporal flesh and man-made laments.