A janus-voice from the past — the rich sea of wheat and bison, and the husk of the prairies. These voices come to a head in the tamed pastures of Saskatoon’s suburbs. Kuba Szmigielski’s wicked drumming accelerates the tension of these songs: the wild pull of the first two barely finds resolution in third. I ask, what elicits these yelps and rhythmic chords? The pain of the lovelorn, the isolation of the prairies or the claustrophobia of the closed city gates? This is a bleary radio call from a locked garrison, a wandering signal for the ears of a phantom penpal.