You can just about imagine the way the house would look, if all the members of Nashville band Promised Land Sound lived in the same one. The porch would probably sag to one side, a beam and more rotting pretty good on whichever side we're talking about. The screen door would have seen better days and there would be muddy paw prints streaking down the wooden siding and main door, left to dry from years earlier -- eye sores that the mailman makes mental notes of every time he stuffs the bills and the advertising circulars in the sad, rusty box. The yard would feature spotty grass clumps, piles of dog turds, various ropes and chains, a saw horse back by the garage and a clothesline that hasn't been used in decades. There would be a nice dirt patch in the back that, during certain hours of every day and night becomes the gathering place for meals, drinks, smokes, guitars and conversation. The insides of the house would be filled with an aroma of cigarettes, damp basement, deep-fried food and topped with the sweet smell of bourbon. The hard wood floors would be gouged up and stained. The beds would be spartan and only what's necessary, but there would be a great turntable, lots of old records, in cream-colored and crinkling sleeves and stacks of dog-eared paperback books. It would be here, or in a place like this where the weedy thoughts of women dimly-lit parties can be reprised internally and given a muggy shape that always feels tempting. Promised Land Sound songs are steeped in feelings of claustrophobic existence and that nagging sense that you're doing everything wrong, you're in the wrong place, nothing's going amount to anything and the only thing that might help is another beer.