Those Poor Bastards own a unique sound that only touches the edges of traditional roots music, a sound that repeatedly smashes the molds that have shaped country and blues for nearly a hundred years. It's a sound that was decidedly born too late, for it seems to long for a time it's creators never knew, a simpler, more primitive time. Rather than commit itself entirely to the time in which we presently live, their sound finds itself treading through the stinking gutter of a Depression era alleyway, only to sit amongst other lost souls, all of them sitting around a mighty fire burning in the guts of a metal waste container. They proceed to pick up guitars, banjos, fiddles, buckets for percussion, and various other instruments, some homemade, some not, and play song after song as if their very lives depended upon it. And throughout the night it evolves into a sound as dark as a winter night, as sharp as a rattler's fang, as vicious as a meth lab guard dog, as bizarre as a pack of sideshow carnies, and as full of fire and brimstone as an evangelical preacher of the South's sweaty Bible Belt. - No Depression.