The members of Antler, (who's heritage runs deep in boston rock, Roadsaw and Quintain Americana) possess both the road-warrior pedigree and sonic wherewithal of true rock champions-and, as such, deliver an album devoid of crass, retrograde romanticism. Dark lyricism, rough & tumble twin guitars, weeping organ riffs, and whiskey-throated vocals lock together like the callused fingers of a hangman's fist lowering the noose over the throat of the condemned. And you'll find no shortage of rope here. Antler's dusty tales of bad luck, hard times, and love gone wrong are like dead letters stranded in the stony depths of an abandoned post office-the kind of forgotten missives upon which futures rested and old debts were meant to be settled.
Of course, the vagaries of what could have been are best left to professionals. But history, they say, is doomed to repeat itself. 'Til then, Antler will wander the woods at night, gun in hand, whistling a familiar tune.
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