So much of Dylan Carlson's pioneer vehicle invests in the cumulative recognition of cultural emblems and frontier snapshots in lieu of lyrics, as the cinematic turn the duo has taken becomes an eidetic narrative to these worn and stoic environs. A journey told with sewn lips and stinging ensemble of funereal country archetypes. Equipped with trombone, electric guitar, organ and lap and pedal guitars, nine tracks make their way through the dust and gray shade of memory.

Achieving in music to a lesser extent what James Marsh's excellent film "Wisconsin Death Trip" communicated (based on the book of the same name), the album exudes a bucolic tenderness and tradition that intercedes with the march of progress and order as man confronts man, nature and his own creations. The contrast between the locomotion of labor and ceremony is one where Earth combines the twang of Neil Young with the dramatic Western mold of Ennio Moriccone. Those steadily held notes being brought into tickling drone hymns of no salvation, fitted with the most perfectly conceived song titles: "Land of Some Other Order" with its psychedelic vibrations of steel and brass, "The Dire and Ever Circling Wolves" portraying dearth and defeat through its wrangling melody and "The Felon Wind" edging out with slowly percussive chords trailed by a pair of banjo and blues guitar leads seeking freedom as outlaws of convention. The sounds of which will likely lure other groups under its influence as the past repeats itself. It is the heritage of swarms; the bold and bitter steps of migration that Earth channels under the ward and pride of the Hex.