While the amber sun sets down on muddy waters surrounding the city of Lake Charles, Louisiana, fisherman pull in their catches, plant workers punch in their time clocks, an old lady takes her first pull of her favorite slot machine, and police officers get prepared for their next round of Cowboys and Indians. Counting off a clanking beat from the joining of two warn drumsticks, “1 2 3 4,” the tempo for the night has been announced. A guitar hook sneaks out of a forgotten window and enters the dead end city as the soundtrack to its bustle. Every tick of the old clock echoes off the kitchen floor, sounding just the same as the last second. As time goes by, the steady “ticktockticktock” resonates in the mind, making the guitarist reach for the gain knob to drown the persistent reminder out. A year passes in the same style as the one before. Drum sticks break, strings pop, and amplifiers get bigger. The members of Dead End Lake, sometimes playing under different names and with other people, have tuned themselves to match the chord of their own southern discomfort.