After the daily smoke ritual comes the truck stop at 3 a.m. — a hose slips out of the van's tank, Dakota grabs the squeegee off the rack, and the thief turns out to be the night cook, five hundred miles from home with his own tank on E. He leaves with every windshield in the lot going clean.
Fuzzy guitars, a swampy strut, and a raspy lead trade off with a loose two-voice gang shout built for yelling the chorus from the passenger seat. Put it on for a late-night drive, a long haul, or any shift that needs a little highway justice.