One chord – that's all it takes. Play it long and hard, flip it over and pull it apart, drag it through the gravel and mud, and you've got rock 'n' roll. This is its danger and mystery – its promise. The Archive believes in this. But they're not trying to strip the music down, throw pieces of it away, or hollow anything out. They're not trying to go back to anything. The Archive isn't an argument for anything but itself. The band is after a new kind of psychedelia, one dedicated to the notion that Appalachian folk music was the original one-chord rock 'n' roll, the first head trip. That you can turn the guitars loud, drench the room in reverb, and transform those Southern mountain melodies into something strange and wonderful – something barely recognizable. That the difference between Gillian Welch and U2 isn't as great as we might have supposed. That a melody that resolves might be the most psychedelic of all.

Born to the dark deep depths of the fathomless halls of Classic Manor. Like the sound of the night in a gnarled oak. Comes a band outside of time, born into privilege and breeding, peeing in the fountain of rock.
A man who has seen the insanity of war... and kind of enjoyed it. A Lady who has snubbed her thumb at her wealthy past, yet seems to still have ridiculous cash lying about. And a man who has felt the uncomfortable scourge of too much talcum powder. Ladies and Gentlemen...Lord Classic.

The raw punk sound of The Finks brims with energy and emotion, with some clever lyrics and post-rock leanings.