A rumble on the horizon. Gritted teeth, nuclear fizz and fissured rock. A dab of pill dust from the a linty pocket before it hits: the atom split, pool table overturned, pint glass smashed - valley fever breaking with the clouds as the inertia of small town life is well and truly disrupted. Here to bust out of Doledrum, clad in a t-shirt that screams SOCIALISM and armed with a drum machine, synth, pedal and icy stare are Working Men's Club.
