Like all great bands, Fitzgerald came together in a musty basement permeated by stale beer and cigarette smoke.
It was happenstance, really. A blind e-mail, a random Facebook add and a chance encounter later, the band took shape in early 2009.
Somehow, a foursome found each other and built a house of f'n rock 'n roll.
Nothing Left But The Leaving, Fitzgerald's debut album out this fall, is like the ridiculous holiday decorations for that house. You know the ones, with the air pump Santa and Rudolph, the hundreds of dangling candy canes and incessant bragging. It's a balls-out, wedding night affair with everything that makes music great. A statement of purpose and direction. A stake for identity. And a rumble that knocks you on your ass.
Cut in roughly 12 hours almost entirely live on the floor and produced by Travis Huisman, Nothing Left But The Leaving is a labor of love in all its glorious imperfections and heartfelt solos. This is the sound of a band coming of age, whatever age that may be, and showing everyone exactly why they plan on sticking around
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