Cruising the open road, the top of the 1957 Chevy Convertible peeled back, the desert landscape unfolding before you. And that's when the drugs begin to take hold.

Roaring down the interstate and the meter's buried, but it's just you. Haven't seen another person in what seems like years -- though it's probably only been a few hours. Alone in the desert with a near empty tank and no one to talk to. The only sound other than the rumbling of the Chevy's massive engine and occasional roadkill thump is whatever it is the radio's been playing since you crossed the Nevada border. What the hell is that, anyway?

You've never heard it before, but it sure sounds good pushing its way through those old speakers. A little bit country, a little bit rock and roll, but mostly, unbearably cool. A tumbleweed twang and rockabilly sandwich whose flavor consists entirely of comfortable loneliness.

Oops. You're not alone on the open road. You're in your shoddy-ass, run-down, rat-infested apartment, but things aren't so bad with Friends of Dean Martinez on the stereo 'cause while Retrograde is moodier than your manic depressive roommate, it's about a billion times less irritating. Let's just savor the moment.

-Ryan Schreiber