“3 A.M. Traffic on the city streets is intermittent. The alleys sing with drunks and vagabonds meandering in search of a spot to take respite. Atlanta is silent, save for the wet hum on the pavement as cars streak across its surface, wet from a late-evening rain that took a bite out of the heat that sweltered beyond its afternoon norm. The damp air rises visibly in front of the security lamps and pros and cons and passersby checker the corners and lean beneath awnings of lit storefronts.

Enter a sleek blue Mustang, hung low and growling as it roars into view. It swerves to avoid potholes and debris on its way to the city’s edge, where it veers onto a freeway entrance ramp. A vision of perfect balance, horsepower, calibration and finesse, it darts into, between and past traffic with pinpoint control and cool concentration, the sharp tilts in direction and downshifts executed in a stalwart fashion befitting those who are first on race day.

Guitar, guitar and drums. Adventurous forays into seething nightscapes under the guide of intrepid players who create and resolve tension in ways previously unheard. Daring plummets into dense sonic valleys are answered by escalating passages that raise, one ladder-to-tightrope-walk at a time, not only the listener from the perilous depths, but also raise the stakes, as to successfully render the passengers safe from harm and the music from death-by-bottomless pit, requires great skill, engrossing determination and patience, qualities this trio possesses in spades. Behind the wheel of these six engrossing compositions, The Purkinje Shift work the pedals and hold the wheel in a leather grip, the headlights piercing the darkness like a needle.

When the journey is over, the listener will find himself far from Atlanta, on the other side of the Tennessee valley and mountain range, perhaps, all the way to northern Michigan, sitting and staring at his reflection, all lit and bleach white, in a computer monitor that glows like dulling city lights, the faint odor of exhaust escaping out the cracked window.” – Copper Press