Tasting Darkness with Walking Papers’ Jefferson Angell

Picture a dim, dingy, hotel room. Cigarette smoke. A pistol under a leather jacket, a knife in a well-worn boot. Lipstick. Tattoos. Weary, wise eyes. A tinny old radio playing something gritty and evocative: bluesy roadhouse guitar, hard-driving rhythm section, biblical keys washing underneath like an urgent, muddy river. Someone here’s about to hit bottom, experience catharsis, or both.

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