It could just be the salty rasp of Jordan Beckett that does it to you, but the Bootstraps lead singer leads you to believe that you're you're very one prominent part of a fading photograph. The picture is burning out, disappearing right before your eyes -- turning to lemon yellows, caramel browns and smoky oranges. It's leaving nothing left but a trace negative image, something that once was, but now stands no chance of remaining. He sings with a beautifully hollowed out purpose, seemingly reminding, or taunting us, that there really might not be a tomorrow, but you've got a fat sack of yesterdays that you could spend all of your time on -- contemplating, dealing with, processing until they're worn soft. Though rooted in California, Bootstraps give us the feeling that we've been abandoned in a landlocked place, surrounded by a dusty, whistling west wind, bringing trouble to town. We're in a one gas station town and we're either being eaten alive or we will soon be unless something miraculous happens and we're able to find salvation that seems so rare in these parts. We need so many things that are in short supply. We're getting so much older quicker than we ever thought was possible.