ossory
San Francisco in one unbroken street, waterfront to the foggy avenues: the sea lions who squatted after the quake, Chinatown and the Beats, glass towers over the Tenderloin, a sunny Mission taqueria, the Castro's flag, and the cold western fog they named Karl. Two voices trade the history at a run over pounding drums — hella hills, gold struck twice, and don't you dare call it Frisco.
Don’t Call It Frisco
Style
Fast, driving classic rock at about 158 BPM, wall-to-wall percussion of live kit, tambourine, cowbell, shaker and handclaps, warm overdriven guitars, boogie piano and Hammond organ, with an American Bay Area man and woman trading lines call-and-response into tight unison and close harmony, sung straight and never winking.