Somewhere between a busted PA system in Austin and a dim-lit VFW hall in East Nashville, Nether Hour slipped through a tear in the American music cosmos and landed smack dab in the OurVinyl session—four songs, four videos, one unhinged interview, and the kind of psychedelic Southern soul you don’t bottle — you burn. It happened fast, but not by accident. Chaos has a way of showing up when this band plugs in.

It’s the kind of thing that only happens when the moon’s a little too full and the coffee’s been on too long—Bob Flaco said it best: “That day, that room was a portal.” You could smell it before you heard it—stale beer, ghost-cigarettes, and the sacred hum of American Legion wood paneling. Bishop felt it too: “Felt like we’d been there 100 times.” And Alvin—well, Alvin said the hoes in Nashville were ugly, and we’re not here to argue with the man. It felt like a mirage disguised as a session. No click tracks, no frills — just crooked smiles, fuzzed-out amps, and the kind of swampy, soul-splattered alchemy you can’t fake. This wasn’t just a session—it was a resurrection. That day in East Nashville, it was something even more raw. A haunted house show for the living and the long-gone. No stage lights. No safety nets. Just cigarette haze and the warped glow of memory.

Guitarist Bishop, who grew up playing swampy bar gigs in southern Louisiana, walked into that VFW like he’d never left.

Guitarist Bishop, who grew up playing swampy bar gigs in southern Louisiana, walked into that VFW like he’d never left.

And maybe they had. Maybe the room recognized them—maybe it remembered every busted snare head and every half-tuned Telecaster that ever echoed off its walls. You don’t just record songs in a place like that. You channel spirits. You borrow their stories and scream them back into the void.

The four songs Nether Hour brought into the room weren’t just played—they were exorcised:Long As I Ain’t Alone is the closest they’ll get to country—but even then, it’s been rolled in dust and set on fire.

Perdido (con el Diablo) swings like a possessed tango with a woman who dances to forget the devil at her heels.

Ketamine is a bloodshot hymn for Austin’s night crawlers—written in neon and sung through a fog of memory.

The Hit is dirty-soul vengeance with a groove so heavy it drags your sins behind it.

They came to play Perdido (con el Diablo),, The Hit, Ketamine, and Long As I Ain’t Alone — four tracks that crackle like outlaw scripture and hit harder than a fifth of rye on an empty stomach.Long As I Ain’t Alone might wear country’s boots, but don’t be fooled—it’s a barroom mirage, a smoke signal from a band that’s as country as a back-alley fistfight at 2 a.m. They’ve got too much funk in their boots, too much blues in their bloodstream, and a devil-may-care groove that makes genre feel like a prison sentence they broke out of years ago.

Perdido sways like a woman on her last cigarette—haunted and radiant. Ketamine rips straight from the Austin underworld, a love letter written in eyeliner and hungover regrets. AndThe Hit? That one’s a bullet with no name, a groove-heavy middle finger with the soul of a preacher and the teeth of a junkyard dog.

But this wasn’t just about sound—it was about energy. OurVinyl captured Nether Hour like they were meant to be: live, loose, and lit up like the Fourth of July. No studio polish, no second takes, just pure sonic bootleg magic recorded where the ghosts of jukebox heroes still linger. As Whiskey Riff puts it, Nether Hour’s sound “incorporates undeniable elements of funk, blues, rock, and country,” a gumbo of sound that doesn’t ask for permission—it just takes over the room.

The result? Four live videos that don’t just show the band—they unleash them. An interview that drifts between dead-serious storytelling and bourbon-soaked nonsense. And a collaboration that feels less like content and more like a séance—calling up every greasy ghost of Southern music and handing it a mic.

Nether Hour didn’t go to Nashville to play the game. They went to burn the damn board.

Pour a drink. Light a cigarette. And if the walls start talking, don’t say we didn’t warn you.