Luke Dick seems to write from the perspective of a universal vagabond, like his time here is short, guitar
strings are limited, and he's just a blip in time. His songs smell like the pipe smoke of Harry Nilsson and
Mark Twain, where themes of the big bang, hangovers, and family trees are equally fair game. After all,
everything is a part of this great, beautiful, terrifying blip. And sometimes the only thing that makes any
sense is to sing about it.