Blood from needles, phonograph and otherwise, drip from each primal and poetic track. No sweet songs for sale, these are Bergmann's tales of darkness culled from our deepest desires and dreams, bruised by life but still raging against the dying of the light. Since the late 1970s, his has been a gloriously gritty rock, the hissing cousin of Westerberg and Iggy, the soul shadow beside Neil and Cohen, a whirlpool of songs threatening to pull you under as they baptize. Not for safety seekers or those Bound For Vegas. For those who cling to rock so as not to sink into the depths. Art is salvation in a godless world.
-James Muretich, rock critic, Calgary Herald
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