It's like the flutter of a bug caught in a cobweb, or the jittery split second before a first kiss, or maybe even one of those tics throbbing deep in your eyeball that make you seriously contemplate clawing out your vitreous humor to get at your retina. It all starts with a tickle -- a faint scrape against the strings of a guitar or the twitch of fingers on the frets of a bass. That itch, though, begins to build. Melodies poke into rhythms and then splinter into little drill bits of diamond and fiberglass. Adrenaline courses through your veins. Notes and riffs prick and jab like some kind of thumbtack acupuncture. And then a voice leaps through the air, hair-raising as a siren, piercing everything. The words follow: a high-strung jumble of images, emotions and poetic encryption. By the time the jumpy bleats of a trumpet start spurting into your cerebrum, you're in the midst of a full-on seizure: the sound... More >>>