It is hard to believe that California, rather than Idaho or Alabama, is the state to have spawned an album labeled "doom folk." Flying Canyon's music seems out of place in both the brilliant blue skies and wilting heat of Southern California and the perpetually fog shrouded and windswept Northern California coast. Both are too dynamic and lack the languid pace meter's the trip throughout Flying Canyon's eponymous ten-track album.

Instead of passages set in the golden state, I picture a lone figure rocking to and fro on a rough wood porch, gently strumming a guitar and shaded by a willow that cannot contain its tears underneath a steady, grey drizzle. The gentle plucking of the strings produces a plaintive melody that is echoed by a weary voice fading out into empty space. With no one else around to hear his songs, the singer does his best too soothe his own, tired self. A twig may break and leaves might rustle, but the poor protagonist is alone, singing his sad laments into a darkening sky that seems too vast and empty.

Flying Canyon is indeed doom folk, conjuring images of loss and sadness and providing the appropriate music to back them up. Skeletal and sparse, each song contains a lone guitar and not much more and rarely differs from the album's fatigued theme. In the few instances where they are used, an organ and slow drumbeat re-enforce the dirge-like atmosphere. Cayce Lindner's voice is but a shell and perfectly conveys the wounded images of his lyrics.

While this can be a tough listen on a sunny day, it will more than ably fill in as a shoulder to cry on as the days turn shorter and colder, and when nothing seems to be going right.