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His skin is as the stretches of parched, cracked desert spanning the west and crying out as ghosts in the nighttime. When the sky finally does tear itself apart, unleashing buckets of cool summer tears, Toronto’s smokey troubadour August Knight seeks solace, redemption and peace in the downpour. Replenishment moisturizers his shell, but absolute knowledge still might be well beyond his grasp. “Arizona Rain” is a bleak inspection of the world’s calamitous state and his role within such high stakes, a wayward outcast sinking into the darkness. “Peace is an illusion a joker in the deck / I turn my back on the heavens and lie upon the earth,” sings Knight, whose voice is weathered like overused sandpaper from years of hardship and toiling the soil. “An old man told me a story about a man / He could never get to heaven until there was peace on the land,” he later concludes. The rasp strangles and mangles the body, but it’s his sage wisdom that is most captivating.

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