In the real dark night of the soul it is always three o'clock in the morning." (F. Scott Fitzgerald)
It's three in the morning. It's the hour you can't hail a cab. It's the hour bars close and send you tumbling into the half-light. It's the hour you lie awake, willing your racing mind towards dawn. It's the hour you call an old lover. It's the hour you switch to hard liquor. It's the hour you listen to Howling Bells.
The Howling Bells possess a sound reminiscent of another town, another time. They'll take you to a place far eerier than Twin Peaks. They'll spirit you to the abandoned Old West, to a town shrouded in snowfall, illuminated by campfire. In this town the beguiling melodies of this four-piece will reel and roll about your head like desire and anticipation.
It's three in the morning. It's the hour you can't hail a cab. It's the hour bars close and send you tumbling into the half-light. It's the hour you lie awake, willing your racing mind towards dawn. It's the hour you call an old lover. It's the hour you switch to hard liquor. It's the hour you listen to Howling Bells.
The Howling Bells possess a sound reminiscent of another town, another time. They'll take you to a place far eerier than Twin Peaks. They'll spirit you to the abandoned Old West, to a town shrouded in snowfall, illuminated by campfire. In this town the beguiling melodies of this four-piece will reel and roll about your head like desire and anticipation.