There is a place, a kind or border town. On the outskirts of nowhere and hell. It is bathed in shadows and hysteria. It's a place that wanderers are either forced to visit or a place where the mad choose to live. This place is a doorway to revelation and the enlightenment. But few will enter this door.
In this place there is a single house band. They play every night to the scattered drunks and the desperate gypsies. They are a whirling dervish in the sands, a hypnotic shaman in the swamp they are the manic rodeo clowns and the hurricane.
The sound they weave is like an underground stone room. Wet and dark. It is familiar and strange and keeps on asking you to look deeper. There is a comfortable ease and a grating irritation that bites at the skin. Collisions of hearts and galaxies and the splintering of light through the cracks. An hallucination, a dream, a whisper on the spine of the universe.
This band cannot leave this place. They have a contract. They will play for the damned and the saved and always walk in the shadow light of eternal passing.