Somewhere in the West, in the days after, there’s a busted and broken shack in the middle of the desert.  In the middle of nowhere.  You can’t see it, but emanating out from the shack are radio waves, the last call of a dying and possibly insane man trying to communicate to a world he can no longer see or recognize in the only language he can speak: rock and roll.  Whether it reaches anyone is besides the point: between the fires and radiation the landscape for either music or understanding is barren.  But still the waves spread outward, because even talking to the emptiness is still talking.

Somewhere, in another West, in the days now, there’s a garage filled with amplifiers and cabinets.  Between the clipped fury of a guitar a signal emerges, much to the surprise of the man holding the guitar.  It’s in a language he understands, and it draws him closer to the mesh of the speaker even as his hands find the record button on a nearby tape deck.

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