This second album from Greg Freeman finds northern New England’s hard, un-Instagram-able side, the parking lots of dollar stores, the sooty remnants of burnt-out forests, the single gnarly trees left by farmers for shade as they clear cut the land. Burnover's songs follow knotty, Americana rhythms spiked with drumbeats, stabbed through with sharp-edged guitars. They’re banged up but defiant about it, blistered with feedback and vibrating with reedy, pleading choruses . . .
Only the good shit. Aquarium Drunkard is powered by its patrons. Keep the servers humming and help us continue doing it by pledging your support.
To continue reading, become a member or log in.
