Repo at dawn, amps still warm

Dawn repo rumor on the berth — boots, clipboards, that soft polite voice that means somebody's gear is about to grow legs and walk into a seizure locker. We left the amps stacked like a dare and a sculpture. Metaphor, mostly. Mostly. Repo at Dawn writes itself when your living is loud enough to show up on a list with checkboxes and no sense of humor.

Pass-through fees are vampires with better stationery and worse poetry. We turn the joke into a chant so the room can spit it together without needing a lawyer in the pit. Community service, goblin-style. You're welcome. Nullroot nights get uglier and I like them for it — static intros, fringier edges, less polite volume.

If you're short and angry and tired of being told to lower your voice for the comfort of taller rooms — don't. Lower the tuning. Raise the kick. Meet us in the mid-tempo where the groove lives. The album doesn't whisper for anybody, and neither do I. Four-foot thunder checks itself every night. So should your speakers.