It's hard to listen when you're being yelled at. Subtlety always works better. So when they threw Chris Leo into prison in Atoka, Oklahoma his band still played the show without him that night in Denton, Texas. When his van crashed en route to the Reading Festival on the M-1 outside of Manchester, sending most of his newly formed Glaswegian rhythm section to the hospital, he rented another bus, picked up fresh lads in Leeds and didn't miss a bill. When label upon label, ten drummers, and eight bass players picked him up and subsequently dropped him, it never occurred to Chris to wonder "maybe it's me." Neither angry INS officials on Rainbow Bridge threatening to refuse him entry into his own country nor Basque thugs who stole his tour van and held it ransom in San Sebastian could drive the point through his stubborn skull that his calling laid elsewhere. In the end, it took but a gentle kiss of a front fender against a rear bumber outside the Holland Tunnel one Fall morning on his way to band practice with his Philadelphian rhythm section that whispered a crack just loud enough to pique the Transit Authority cop's interest: an accident on a suspended license is bad bad news. Fortunately, it swept Chris' sea legs out from under him for long enough to do what any of us would have done if mired in a similar situation. He quit his bartending job, closed himself off from the world, holed up in a basement flat in Jackson Heights Queens, played and played and played, wrote and wrote and wrote, until eventually he emerged with White Pigeons, a novel and an album. In this seriously solid vision, no note, preposition, article, or flub is unaccounted for. Chris is as meticulous with his placement of profanities as he is anachronistic with his lofty ideals. Finally the wind beats at Mr. Leo's back rather than pounds against his chest. He's found his path and Fifth Planet Press is proud to offer you White Pigeons as proof.