I’m a man of glacial movement. I’m a marathon runner of creativity and productivity. My love of Tiltwheel is well documented because I self-publish. I re-tell Davey’s clown stories in front of kids when I talk at the library. I once made a decision to stop dating a lady because she didn’t appreciate that “back stage” for Tiltwheel means “van.” The mini-novel-length, three-part interview of Tiltwheel that was printed in Razorcake a good year before this record was released is the longest piece of “music journalism” (such a twatty term) I’ve ever done. It was worth every word and I really still don’t care if more than a hundred people read it in its entirety. I did it because I could and I wanted to and I didn’t have a boss yanking my chain. If you’re reading this and vehemently disagree with how high a regard I’ve kept and still keep for Tiltwheel, do us both a favor and put all that energy in making something of your own. Do it for fifteen years—through snapped bones, shanghaied hearts, rejected paperwork, douche bosses, termite swarms—then get back to me if you’re not selling insurance or haven’t completely disappeared into “real life.” I’m glad to say that The High Hate Us didn’t jump the shark—that it’s on par with the best of Tiltwheel—because I can’t afford to get these tattoos lasered off and I don’t know how one goes about recalling patron saints. Beautiful packaging, to boot.