This particular Patrick Porter born in the Dixie sticks and of the Tennessee trailers, wind whoop train whistle cornpone Americana mixed a whiff with hinterland Dada Germany by way of mother's milk. Hijacked way out west to tramp the falling pinecones and Mount Roselee weeping one million horses' worth of reverb through a chilly window, suckle the edge of a King Biscuit Flour Hour and tramp a K-Mart parking lot, make a first memory. Ten hot breaths later malt a Fender Mustang twang long lost into country mice, icebox stars and adolescent pining (not to mention a hearty heavy metal apprenticeship in pater's biker bar band-- hum duh duh duh in your head and hit a gong with a hot wing). Hundreds of plate-chipped cassettes later a first stab at posterity past puberty.

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