In Brighton, the rain runs hard and fast down Queens Road, past kebab shops and street fights and neon lights. Hen parties spill out onto the pavement with leather skirts bound tight. Bouncers are shaking down the last kids in town, as train strikes besiege the midnight commuters heading north. The taxis wait like army ants strung out across the concourse. The streets are alive with fire on a Saturday night. In the Albert, we sit and lament over ruinous nights and drink until our bellies are full. In the morning we will sip coffee in fear of the bleary sunrise whilst seagulls pick through the debris of all that came before. The sun will beat down on the hipsters checking in to record stores, as out-of-towners disappear past us through the laines… then off we will go once more back under the bridge, past the Green Door and down to Sticky Mikes (for another round of that sticky green liqueur). Over the years we have gigged many towns like this, endlessly searching for the heart of it all. Half a lifetime of sweat and blood in pubs and clubs, in parks and other assorted shitholes. Broken bones, worn and torn and tired, yet still we push on in search of that spirit to overcome the trouble that lies deep inside; in search of escape. Bukowski, Kerouac, Cummings, Hemingway have all been here. And we've found pots of gold in the music of Young, Dylan, The Band, Springsteen, Waits, and Cave - mixing it up with Cobain, Stone Age, and anything in between. Vibrant, dirty, rootsy, gutsy and soulful. We pour it all into the melting pot and stir until the magic bubbles to the top. Night falls and we travel the railway, slowly pulled back up the mainline into the concrete jungle of South London's Croydon; our spiritual home. Another gig, another night of leaving it all on the sawdust floor. We try to escape the big smoke, across the three bridges and down to the sunshine coast where the seaside towns all the way from Eastbourne to Worthing have the wind in their sails. Mermaids sun themselves on the rocks in front of skeleton piers and broken dreams; there's no road left to roam, just the sea and the channel and the distant coattails of Cornwall giving us that knowing wink from the west. We make records in a dimly-lit room behind a kebab shop, accessed via a secret red door like the gateway to Narnia. We are rum brothers who hip-flask our way from gig to gig. Puffing on roll-ups, knocking back the Guinness and shooting pool. Always lending a cautious wary eye to the tale of excess. This ain't no dead-celebrity hotel swimming pool trip. This is a south coast blues trip. The quest for a better life. The trouble and the strife. With our debut album 'Let Sleeping Dogs Lie' we were just two! With this sophomore release, we have the cavalry behind us. Some kool kats: the Hammond, the cowbell, the harp and the dirty bass mixing blues with punk with country and soul all ready to take a ride for one last time. Trouble and thunder heading in from out of town. All this with so much trouble in mind.