Maybe we can’t win in the East anymore. The wind blows down our forts and the price of gas is a veritable economic sanction. So we turn our back against the West in self-defense, and look out at the Atlantic knowing full well we’ll never sail again. So in the ramshackle and makeshift, clinging to a rockbound coast, a few sage wanderers find refuge and set up shop. They build humble cathedrals to sound and spirit, outposts for incantation, transmission, and reception. In places like Port Greville, Riverport, and West Pennant, warm rooms face cold weather and records get made simply. Fuzz pedals and poetry, exaltations and a snare drum. And then here are six, sure, rock and roll songs packed tightly into brown wax paper, a small gift tied taught with twine. Like an unassuming handshake, a wink, or a nod, you can hear a community throughout this record, and with that, echoes of migration.