From the last orders of Kevin Hainey:

Drainolith’s sophomoric heavy hitter of an album comes ambling through the barbed wire gates with the juiced up swagger of a junkyard man, wielding a heavy pipe and snarling coarse warnings. Once he realizes you’re not trying to rip him off, he invites you into his converted shed. You notice the ramshackle shelter would be crushed if one of the high piles of rusted out Chevy and Pontiac bodies creaking in the breeze were to topple over. But the junkyard owner’s confidence is inspiring so you follow him inside. Not much light gets in here, there’s an orange glow over everything and the air is still and smokey. You knock over a pile of empty beer bottles as you make your way into his cluttered dwelling. There are bottles all over the place. He tells you not to worry about it, and to sit down while he gets you a beer from the fridge. The couch is just fucking gross and covered with mountains of possessions, so you pull a chewed up old stool with paint blotches out from a corner and plant it. When the junkyard man comes back with your beer it’s just the beginning of one of the most important afternoons of your life, a time you replay from your memories for the remainder of your days.