Sao Paulo

From the classic rock echoes that hang heavy like the reefer smoke in the rafters of Detroit's Cobo Hall, to the soul reflected in the alleys and small faces of London's Heavy Load scene to the exile off Main Street, few bands channel the sonic groove generated at the headwaters of our rock and roll DNA like Deadstring Brothers. They know that rock and roll is both disease and redemption, penalty and reward, intoxicant and hangover. They know that a powerhouse hook exhilarates even as you're getting kicked in the heart. The Brothers, in their leather boots and frayed jeans, tenaciously trudge through the oil slick puddles of a dying city, the hard light splitting into prismatic rainbows, finding beauty in decay.

Sao Paulo understands the liberation borne of mourning, that an elegy cannot truly soar without jarring adversity to buoy it. Built on the ample shoulders of masterful forebears, Deadstring Brothers delve into the grit and sweat of dirty blues scooped from the fields of the Delta and polish it in the toxic waters of the Detroit River; the smell of their motor oil, strong coffee and whiskey-stained beards narcotic.