Crackpot punkin’ countrybilly bluegrass, or grass-guzzling rockabilly blues, or rock chomping blue movie crack smoking pot growing hillbilly hound dogging country. From Switzerland. As you do. But of course how the hell else did Country music end up in Tennessee but via the original shit-kickers from Europe? You gotta kick a whole haybarn full o’ shit to get across the Atlantic ah guess. I wouldn’t have it any other way. And neither, of course, should you. These songs are mini-epics set amidst wide open plains whether in Montana or somewhere in your own dehydrated demented delirious dreamlands, bean-tin belches sprouting like spur-shredding campfire farts powering warped wagon-trains way out west for a hoe-down on the edge of the highway to hell, highwater and hangovers...tales of dames, damn dames, damnation and damned dames, drugs, drink n’ despair...yeah yeah yeah like every lonesome and penniless cowboy wending his woe filled way to the ends of a whiskey bottle brought down by the ways of women from Wyoming to Withington. But Mr Zeno zaps right into the collective unconscious of each and every cowboy dude in the world in a tradition true to Hank and Steve Earle through to Eddie Spaghetti. And I’m sho’ as Hell sure that Hank never did it this way. This is sinicious enough to send Jerry Lee to Baptist church right away. Don’t try and stop him. Just let him go, while you kick back with a bottle and let old Zeno kick up a storm. -Stu Gibson