I entered the establishment and found a bearded lad laden with a river of curly hair, wearing a thick, plaid blazer and pleated trousers. He sang with a grin, and he strummed with a belief in the words he sung. Some songs I heard and they tasted strange on my tongue for their righteous politics, but others, especially in their raw form, made so whimsical a sensation manifest that I wanted only to drive down a straight, long road and pop his CD into the disc drive.
— Wyatt Widmer, 831Sound