It’s the type of tunes that you can hear the hardwood creak beneath the rocking chair. You taste the smoke from burning tobacco, feel the warmth of that Kentucky elixir spilling against your throat. Every note, a boot stomp in time to the lick of the banjo, heart bouncing with the tug of bass. The dust and dirt jumping from the floorboards to the kick of the drum - all, crashing into a chaotic symphony of folk mastery. Needless to say, Buffalo Wabs & The Price Hill Hustle don’t create the emotion - they are the emotion.