Brad is arguably the only relevant male songwriter under 30 living in America today. He unveils two tracks from his heavily anticipated forthcoming album, recorded in a church under the benevolent guidance of a peaceful, non-denominational god. These songs will send spasms of sudden happiness across the back of your head and into your chest cavity.

This posthumous release reminds us of the immeasurable potential and self-destructive hubris of a band described by knowing insiders as ?a call to undeclared war?.

The Kilowatt Hours penetrate the cracks in our hearts like dust. Songs unravel and constrict in serpentine guitar equations, the drums massage and bellow, vocals and snippets of answering machine fade into the foreground. You wish you knew how to ride a horse to this music, or save a life.

An offshoot (or outgrowth) of the New Brunswick scene, this folk music is soulful, cinematic, and sad. We would want them to play at our funeral, so all our friends could weep without shame, just for once.