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Junker Grain plays shows for ghosts, cause its so ghost to head for the coast where slots bang five on the host who knows there ain't know rhythm like the jangle of rain on the lattice work of your furrowed brows.
Three chumps digging through the loam, peaking on taurine, slaying dragons if only in their mind. A bass, keys, and some drummage. Noah, Phil, Matt, Joe. Who knows where this road goes. Keep it echoing off the velvet curtains, until the reverb overcomes.