Sit down kids, and I’ll tell you a tale of Not Not Fun. The L.A. label was once home to unimaginable psychedelic romps from a host of whippersnappers who have now gone on to do others things. Most of those other things are far more silky or poppy than those days of yonder, but the pioneer spirit is still strong. But I grew older and tethered to walls. I was no longer a dancing man, though still coiled like a snake at a good rhythmic beat. But in the midst of all the molly’d goodness rode Daughters of the Sun. They reminded me of those brightly colored times of Robedoor, Pocahaunted, and Topping Bottoms. Theirs a primal energy tapped into the root of Not Not Fun’s grungy heyday. NNF has had its share of those heydays and all have been parties that I have happily witnessed but as you’ll soon find out for yourselves, nostalgia is a powerful drug. It will lead you down paths you should never wander again but sometimes you’ll open that wardrobe door or dormant clock and catch just enough of a whiff to get you high on your past life. Ride to Die is my patchouli-soaked return to glory. It’s nag champa goodness that unravels like the strands of time before me. Why am I sitting in this rocking chair regaling you with tales of the old when they are here again. Stop playing your pipes, charmer, I’m busting out of here with venomous teeth and striking out into the wilderness once more. Go play, kids. Go play.