Michael Rank likes the barrel's bottom. He sucks up the dregs and spits them back out via a nightcrawling Stonesy strut. From Southern-fried crackle to rustic drone, Rank's surveyed a lifetime of low-lit gutter rock, but his new outfit with Patty Hurst Shifter guitarist Marc E. Smith has passed through the amniotic sac that separates Saturday night from Sunday morning. They emerge less blustery and hydrated, their beefy jerky tempered and reflective, fueled by the laconic drawl of pedal steel. The lines in the corner of Rank's eyes are record grooves, and his collar is tear-stained. But the flinty stare claims "It's all the same to me." —Chris Parker