From the back porch, rain of indeterminate origin hazes down over patched earth. Water pools around the muddied city, skyscrapers of ambling weeds struggling to stay afloat. Concrete relics, yard art no one remembers buying stand alongside forgotten pine trees as the rain keeps falling. From behind you, from the door, wafts must, dirt, dust from the stack of vinyl. Neil Young. Pink Floyd. Moby Grape. As you sit on the porch, wood on wood, smoking hash, watching the rain fall. That is this album. It draws on enough classic rock, reverb and fuzz guitar drones, screeching, and psychedelic wailing while using enough modern era lingo to keep it fresh..