Chalked full of the usual drunken shenanigans from the rebel moonshiners‚ the unmistakable duel vocal cannons of Patterson Hood and Mike Cooley sears the listener with a sandpaper grit tough enough to remove any rust or stagnant growth one might assume has accumulated on their eighth studio album.

With its quirky small-town characters and menacing underbelly of behind-closed-doors revulsion‚ the record conjures similarities to Sherwood Anderson's literary masterpiece‚ Winesburg‚ Ohio.

The offering weighs you down with the force and pessimism of an obese prostitute amid a cocaine binge ("Birthday Boy"). You shake melodic hands with blue-collar glass ceilings ("This Fucking Job")‚ self-imposed heartache ("The Fourth Night of My Drinking")‚ and childhood neglect from those who are supposed to love you unconditionally ("Daddy Learned to Fly").

Though not as haphazard in approach as Brighter Than Creations Dark‚ the songs are streamlined‚ undeniably catchy‚ and more accessible than previous endeavors. The only true rebuttal to Keith Richards in technique‚ charm‚ and alcohol tolerance‚ Cooley channels his inner Iggy Pop ("Get Downtown") and Willie Nelson ("Eyes Like Glue"). With a trifecta of squealing guitars‚ Jack & Diane handclaps‚ and freewheeling lyrical lunacy‚ "Drag the Lake Charlie" sticks to you like the infamous Georgian humidity.

If anything‚ the Truckers have hit their stride. Distilled to perfection‚ the sextet is the finest rock outfit below the Mason-Dixon Line‚ above the Mason-Dixon Line‚ east of the Mississippi River‚ and west of the Mississippi River.