It’s a siren song, a longing for those times of sticky Junes, whiskey in jars, kind folks- all in the deep deep South. But for whatever reason, Catl are here in the North. But maybe it’s the punk in them.

They’re a little weathered, in black leather and sunglasses, hardened only by these unforgiving months. But they grind out those Delta blues like it’s something they need to do. words by Nada Alic myspace.com/catlmusic

They’ve gotta let out the soul before the snow buries them alive. They’ll keep strumming their guitars and banging away. Orphaned spirits of the South. words by Nada Alic myspace.com/catlmusic