Except, roll down the window and let the wind blow back your hair

This is the summer of my discontent, gravelly voiced, working class songsmiths weaving melodies from the lower registers-

endless amounts of Tom Waits, Nick Cave, Bruce Springsteen... Stephen Merritt, the National.

My womb music was bruce springsteen, I was possibly conceived during the Born in the USA tour, 1985. I don't know if that makes the space he takes up in my soul any less cliche, but I will draw upon the wisdom of Sabina Carlson to justify my shameless devotion to the garden state, springsteen love and all--

...Grow Wings from Your Wounds...We're all stellar, our friends, because we've had to claw ourselves out of the suburbs and onward to the stars--- through that brick red dirt of South Jersey and the apathy weighing ankles like boots coated in clay...
I am in love with New Jersey... and if you've never photographed broken glass in an abandoned casino in Asbury Park with a bohemian princess... if you've never seen the electric factories glow like angels on I-95...if you've never wished on a streetlamp when you couldn't see shooting stars... don't tell me New Jersey isn't beautiful...

Film comment--
My Winnipeg. My Winnipeg. My Winnipeg. So sentimental and bitingly nostalgic and genuine, in the best way possible for an ambivalent, experimental film about a mixed bag hometown, and escape, without answers.