Don’t ask me who Clutchy Hopkins is; I don’t know. There’s a line of people waiting to learn his whereabouts. If you find out, perhaps you will be kind enough to hand over the contact info for the mysterious trickster, folklore guru, and marvelous musician. What I do know is that his album might as well be the crackly soundtrack to a vintage spaghetti western crossed with a 70s porno. Rickety breaks n’ beats and busted keyboard sounds pop out against lush strings, while a collection of guitars and mandolins strum alongside old-school synthesizers. Some tunes are hypnotic and build around a droning rumble or relentless chords while others are driving or change up to reveal new intentions. It’s an eerie blend of dusty-bar blues, mariachi soul and hard times funk that sounds like it was recorded in a backyard shack somewhere remote.