Megan Hutch’s voice is a torch. She wields it with reckless abandon. Cutting deep into the decades of American music, she welds it all back together again with the authority of an undertaker and the mad glee of a black bloc saboteur. Megan Hutch does not sing songs. Megan Hutch sings a furrowed brow, freshly painted toenails and broken down cars under endless stars. Megan Hutch sings to ghosts who are welcome home. Electric or acoustic, accompanied or solo, ones and zeros or fresh magnetic tape, Megan Hutch twists tunes out of time into a seductive hillbilly jazz punk unpredictable and entirely unlikely. The world is full of people with guitars singing songs to people with guitars. Megan Hutch is her own world full of mysterious stairs, lonely cats and hilarious anguish.