Think of us as emotional landscapers: we’ll dig up your feelings, pour whiskey on ’em, then plant a power chord—fertilizing the soil with every busted‑up memory you tried to bury under late‑night drive‑thru receipts and half‑smoked Marlboros. We’ll water that raw patch of heartache with pedal‑steel tears, till the ground with drum kicks that rattle your ribcage, and watch a rowdy wildfire of guitar riffs shoot up like kudzu on a humid Southern back road. By the time the solo blooms, your pain’s sprouted into something loud enough to shake the porchlights two counties over—proving heartbreak grows best when it’s cranked to eleven.
