My Pop used to listen to Gospel and trucking songs while he worked. I have this vague memory of him sitting in the bare front yard degreasing engine parts with Coca-Cola and cigarette smoke, stereo blaring. (The cigarette smoke served no real purpose, it just happened to accompany every action he ever performed.)
With Thin Sunlight, Crimes take me back to those sounds - and that grease and smoke. I picture watching them practise (through a grimy window) in a beat up old barn. I'd be on my tiptoes on a rusty old oil can and they'd be inside swilling whiskey, working out harmonies and getting the reverb set to squelch. And set it, they did. The tracks here lumber and spring; they howl and swirl; they disorientate and enchant - all from behind a creeping cloud of smoke.
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