Frontier Ruckus is most usually in a perpetual state of waiting--limbo. This is an enormous place to be, it is seen clearly in the modern space of the "dead mall;" it's like this, buildings and towns and counties are containers that gradually show the glowing life or death of the things within them. The existence of locality, and the connection of all the spaces or people you engulf via bodies and via breath, that expansiveness of breath, is where Frontier Ruckus resides, and it is past that county-line-frontier where knowledge and affection blur into nothing. Every space/place/winter gas station lot/anonymous-dim-white-metal-highwayside-dome/etc. that you've known and eye-gulped compulsively throughout a lifetime is a container of memory and affect, and the faces of these places, these containers, are slowly exhibiting explicit portrayals of that which they hold--body and breath and horrible nighttime cosmos. When Frontier Ruckus is in song, the dynamism throatily throttles out of idle and the container spills all of its fluid out onto the bashful and awful hands of anything that does the pumping.