The Flying Blackbyrds – No. 0

From the receding flood waters of Calgary comes a real rocker; Mike Tod straps on a roaring electric guitar and stomps into the studio with a bone-shaking din. Tod’s lo-fi sensibilities are instantly recognizable, bridge the transition between genres as he trades his storyteller’s enunciation for a sneering growl at the front of a loose band. The songs are steeped in increasing urgency, culminating in the devilish swell of “Break a Ghost pt. 3” — a frantic speed-up of the more considered “…pt. 2,” and the sudden end of Tod’s weatherbeaten voice. I can only imagine him dragged from the stage, swallowed by the dervish he has swept up, lost forever in the heated barroom swirl. In Tod’s absence, Jamey Lougheed grips the microphone like a racing baton, leads a triumphant denouement. This is a record for hot nights and long evenings. Drink it down before the end of the short, prairie summer.

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