Acid King strikes me as the quintessential American band. The real America, the one that doesn’t take sides, posturing, or force one’s will upon another. There’s only the open road ahead, full of possibilities and the consequences of our choices and actions. A ragtag tribe of misfits, worshipping the sound of a lone Gibson into an overdriven tube amp, head cocked back, eyes glazed and focusing on the ether as the chord goes ever on, the pulse of drums injecting chaos into the proceedings as the bass rattles our guts.

Cracked window paint

Lead paint doesn’t taste so bad

Slow that’s the only way I know.

Indeed, and as it ever was. The once and future Acid King.

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