It evolves into a sound as dark as a winter night, as sharp as a rattler’s fang, as vicious as a meth lab guard dog, as bizarre as a pack of sideshow carnies, and as full of fire and brimstone as an evangelical preacher of the South’s sweaty Bible Belt.

I can imagine Wyatt and The Minister meeting by chance at the same crossroads where Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil to become one of the greatest bluesmen of his time. But when the devil offered the duo a similar deal, they declined, saying they didn’t want to be the best old-timey roots and gothic country band of their time. Instead, they claimed they wanted to gut country music like a slaughterhouse pig.