It’s a lost and lonely road through desert nowhere. There are bleak reminders of what was. This town is a vacancy, faded sighs and signs, shadows of the voices that once filled the streets. The slow collapse of buildings, the languid march of time, clouds that threaten the blessing of rain. You’re driving, taming the escape of pavement. The pulse of music whispers out of your speakers. Loss and longing subdued on the southwestern canvas. Trumpets caress the landscape and set the scene for a voice, a voice familiar as the hard sun, it’s a voice as welcoming as home, yet as worn as travel. This is the music of John Meeks.