Just round the corner, beyond the end of your nose, where everybody knows your name, is that bar, that tavern, that pub. It’s your best friend’s parents’ basement, the garage you can’t park your car in, the same seat at the football. It’s the street corner or the square near your house.Whether it’s Rockford or Chicago, Illinois – or anywhere town, U.S.A – for Ryley Walker, it’s the Roundabout. Where you don’t have cash for a beer. Where cigarettes cost more than ten bucks. Where you walk past arm in arm, staying close against the cold. It’s the long route cos you want to go past your old house and the church you walked past everyday for years and years. It’s where you go to feel safe, and happy, and sad and to remind you of where you’ve been and come from.

Ryley Walker has condensed this into a rolling, repetitively lilting, vicious, beautiful circle. He could, at any moment, just leave that roundabout and take off somewhere. Ryley has made a name for himself with his multi-minute epic instrumental outros, and he could take this one beyond its four minutes forty seconds and into the sunset. But he’d return. We all return. At least in our minds. You can find us at the roundabout.