Fry up some Punk and Southern Rock'n'Roll, smother it in a healthy ladel of Stoner Rock, and pepper in the wry Country sarcasm that can only be found in the dimmest, smokiest highway honky tonks, and the resulting truckstop delicacy might look and taste just like Smoker Dad. Simultaneously as warm and familiar as your favorite six-pack of cheap beer and as edgy and powerful as a 70s Trans Am with all the bells and whistles, Seattle's Smoker Dad harkens to simpler days, while flooring it into the heart of the 21st Century. You gotta see 'em to believe 'em, and even then you might not buy a word they say... but you're gonna love 'em anyway!

Born in a trash can, Raised in the gutter. On a mission from the devil to create the worlds worst facsimile of rock and roll. Imagine a Fats Domino tribute band consisting of feral dogs armed with only world war two tank radios and you pretty much know what you’re getting into. With Ian Reed manning a broken guitar and spitting no nonsense nonsense, Obi Guinn snarling enticingly brutalist melodies on her baritone sax, Meg Slavich rumbling the barn rafters on her bass and Mark Etherington offering a thunderous sacrament to our god: John Bonham. Stetson Heat Seeker is coming to a dive bar near you to presumably steal the copper piping out of the walls. Be prepared