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Take a pinch of the shuttered French Quarter, a dash of shack distilled brew, mix it with the alleyways of Les Halles, throw in equal measures of wrong side of the tracks bars and whisky driven night sweats. Fire it up with songs of loss, of dashed dreams, of devils in dresses and a twist of bitters. Shake it. Bottle it. And sell it out of an old battered cardboard suitcase. These are the ingredients of Gill Landry’s debut album. The songs veer from the rural to ruined streets, from the bottle to the graveyard, from a murder of ravens to hymns. These songs read like a book. A collection of stories, of narratives charting the restless wanderings of a itinerant musician. These are not songs about Main Street. These are way back. They are a...