Somewhere in an unassuming Grande Prairie bedroom, Alex Linfield is seated in a fort made of vinyl. He invites you inside, closing the door behind him, and launches a searing side-glance into the rock ‘n’ roll canon. There is something voyeuristic about being there to watch this bedroom dancer, with his headphones still on, plowing through damaged covers and uncouth originals; it’s as entertaining as a scurrilous rumor or indiscreet disclosure. This one-man psychogenic wrecking crew slams the door in the world’s face, and you are the only person allowed to be there with him. Bright White Coat Hanger sits on the same side of a topological barrier that you haven’t even been able to see since you were a surly teenager.