"I swear, I seen 'em, Jim! Big ol' flying guitars goin' round and round Halifax International!"

First, I thought it was just the Halifax-Boston route starting to grate on Hank's nerves; even though us truckers are like cowboys-- on our iron horses a-ridin', as it were-- we do tend to get a bit vulnerable sometimes, psychologically speaking. He looked a bit more jumpy than usual today, though.

"Maybe it's them am-phetamines you been taking," I suggested. "In a My Bloody Valentine-type fashion, Hank?"

"No, in a more Polvo sorta way."

Well, that about knocked my underpants out my overalls; I didn't know Hank was into the math-rock. "Maybe it's the music you been listening to, huh, Hank?" I said.

Hank looked me straight in the eyes. He had real pretty eyes. "C'mon, I want you to listen to something."

We paid our bills and walked out of the diner to where Hank's truck (you know, the one with "Drive Like Jehu" painted on the side) was parked. We got into the cab. He had a turntable set up between the seats; I don't know how he kept the thing from skipping when he drove, but he did. Hank dug out a record. "Vinyl-only release," he said, gently placing it down and fiddling with the needle. "I got it last time I was up here. By North of America."

Hehe. Canadians. "Say, why's it called The Sepultura?"

"Search me. It sure ain't heavy metal." He turned the key. The engine revved and the record started spinning. I heard one of them wimpy, atonal little indie riffs coming at me from the speakers. I was about to turn the stereo off when the drums and the bass kicked in, all thrashing and churning around. The melody burst out in little chunks through the dissonance.

"Now, those are definitely what we call emo vocals there, Hank. Or, more properly, screamo vocals."

Hank pulled out of his space, merging onto the interstate. "Yessir, but not so anguished all the time. I reckon these boys like to have a good time once in a while."

"Well, good for them. What's this ditty called?"

"'Now That You've Got Your Doctorate, Don't Forget to Doctor It.'"

"College boys. Figures." I could see how this could make a fella like Hank jumpy; as the song finished, all three vocalists were chanting chopped-up versions of the song title, screaming like chickens with their heads cut off. As the second track started, I could venture a guess as to why this would make Hank see them flying guitars, too; the band soared in close formation, instruments meshing together in a propulsive little groove, till they scattered at the start/stop ending.

"But what's all this singin' about dictionaries and syntax and 'context is everything?' Think it's a bit over my head."

"I reckon they're gettin' all post-structural on us. I can't make heads or tails of it neither."

I didn't much care for the third song, just lots of them guitar harmonics, which seem overused, if you ask me, and some more tortured screaming. I looked to see where Hank was going; it appeared he was taking the exit for Halifax International Airport. He turned round to me as the song ended. "I like this next one, it's called 'Back Stabbath.' Get it?"

I got it. Luckily, the song was a load better than the joke. One of the guitars played something low and dirty, then the other came with some of those swooping sounds, all around a nice little melody. I really liked the more melodic parts; these guys oughta try to do more of those, or at least have lunch with Sloan when they're in town. The song almost lost its way when some weirdo squelching effects came in over the guitars, but the whole thing suddenly turned into this thumpy bass groove with whispered vocals on top, only to transform itself a few more times before the side finished.

Pretty impressed, I flipped the record over.

"Almost there now, boy," Hank said, eyes glued to the road. Hank had sure did have pretty eyes. The second side played out like the first, with a little more restraint and open space and such. But there was still all that crazy thrasharound stuff. The first one ("Like Flint," Hank told me) had a really slick tempo change in one of those quiet parts that led up to a killer chorus: "Silence will assign you an interesting fate/ 'Cause everything has its own history to make." Even with all of those big college-boy words, it didn't sound awkward. The last one, called "Font Crimes," was almost all quiet-- it damn near got boring. But if you gave it some attention, it paid you back in guitar interplay. As the record ended, Hank stopped the truck.

"Well, I liked it, though I'm not sure how well that emo-sincerity deal goes with those abstract lyrics and rubbery guitars and deconstructionism and all... Hank?"

I took a look a Hank; he was all frozen, staring straight ahead. I looked out over the headlights, and I'll be duck-fucked if it wasn't them damn flying guitars-- big old V-shaped buggers all lit up and circling round over an airfield! And there were four fellas with those big orange cone thingies waving 'em down, and damned if it wasn't Sloan! They all looked at me and smiled. They had real pretty eyes.

-Brendan Reid