It takes about 20 seconds into the first song to be comfortable with the cosmic noise. The music tends to encase its listener, to be a suffocating force laid atop their body, an intense extension of the fluid already swooshing inside of their heads. It is not classical, it is not rock, it is nearly impossible to pinpoint, but it is music to run with and from.

The journey: a quiet stroll interrupted with bursts and keyboard blasts, falling trees and shifting skies. The anxiety of a violin sets the pace. A culminating moment when the floor shakes and separates, the cellos and violins peep in and new grass forms in the void. No less than three guitars harmoniously weave together the tale and GYBE give it a scurvy title regarding American political wrong doings. It is not a listen for the meek minded. The music is depressing for happy people and self medicating for the rest of us.

The albums lend themselves to film soundtracks and background music. GYBE impresses on its fans that they are a live band first, not playing from compositions but gesturing, cuing each other through hand signals. This is all that much more impressive when the audience realizes the band is so great in number that they leak from the stage and play from places within the audience, in the nooks of the venues, from behind a film reel. They intensely control the feedback and give the audience an experience to drink from, stationing them in one spot for the entire show.