In the tall trees and hazy fog some miles north of Seattle resides a couple houses that probably feel really blessed to be neighbors with the boys of Pickwick. A warmth, a happiness, and a fraternal bond lives, breathes, and exudes out of the walls of a small little, brick-laden house. The living room crammed with gear, their music overflowing with groove and soul, Pickwick took the casual gloom of Seattle and lit it on fire. Each second slowly building until it felt like demon’s were erupting out of Galen’s vocal chords, bellowing “ooooh-woo!” all while handclaps and foot stomps summoned something from beneath our feet. Whatever it was, it shook my bones and held my breath.

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