These United States is the songs of Jesse Elliott, flipped, forged, phased, and fermented; stolen, re-taken, elongated and elevated, beaten and bruised, occasionally imbued, by an ever-battling band of music-mad robber-barons, enthused aesthetic thieves of the long and winding subway tunnels and underground railroads of our cacophonous nation.

In the opening chapter of our epic tale, an uncomfortable duo locks eyes in ninth grade English class. Their mutual admiration is frowned upon by the clan of each, springing forth as they do, one from a bohemian bevy of experience-gobbling yes-sayers – the other, from a covert cavern carved deep within the confines of his own mind, a recluse of reckless proportions. Binding them only, each one lonely, is the Written Word, which they will soon render Hummed, eventually Heard.

Flash forward seasons: the two have not talked since parting on unspoken terms, drifting off into the universe in disparate directions, one towards painting, the other politics, one then towards fossils, the other then film. They reunite in the blossoming bosom of a tiny town, somewhere in the east of Iowa. Memories stirred, a collective co-habitated, garages refashioned, and a Project born. Sparked, summoned, stoked, eventually though squandered and severed. Again. Off, again.

Other years pass, some as triumphant trumpets, some the moaning trombones. Elliott itemizes inspirations, squeezing from the blood of rocks near and far – one here, on the bus from Guatemala City to Huatulco; one there, through an Indiana cornfield, remembering shotguns and uncles; one here, in an Amsterdam apartment, left alone by a long lost love; one there, pulling boots up again against brick and wind in sweet home Chicago.

Mister So-and-So goes to Washington. Vandaveer and Kitty Hawk welcome him, open arms. Later, Read of Revival, then Hnatow of the Million Strings. The people of the city are good, and plans for the next-stop train-hop abandoned. The Federal Reserve is birthed, a corner dive bar found. Monthly showcases ensue, the soundwaves ever outward, concentric circles, calling like-minded spirits home. Catholic Cosenza flies a plane every now and again, swoops down unto the fair capital, knocks a breath or two out. Some call it a band, but it's only a family.

Then more January, and Paleo rides a winter wind in, two childhood friends reunited. An ensemble of players is cornered, and the fits and starts of another tumultuous project begun. Elliott's songs are the bones – but what is a Skeleton without its Flesh? So many play, so many give, so much is made, most of all months. Passing and passing, Paleo and Elliott take to the road. They meet another old friend, unseen in years, in the middle of Kansas, on a street corner, with a steaming cup of coffee, in the early morning. It seems like a sign. This one will come Through, will make it round the Mountain.

Back to the hot mean summer streets East, Burleigh Seaver lays down vocals. Chad Clark is on board for mixing. Things are moving. Too many minutes glued to computers in dark rooms, but now at least a Direction. With literary aspirations layered over low-key rhythms and longing vocals, These United States are by turns fiercely enthused and melancholically memorable. They pop and sizzle, stomp and ponder, warble and whoop – but always seek to engage the listener in a thought and a story beyond the usual pop'n'roll fare. That is the sound-bite.

But really, truly, short story longer, a year and a half into it all, These United States is scoring the film of Elliott's clap-trap brain. He heard something once, see, though still can't remember where, damnitall: if words make you think a thought, and music makes you feel a feeling, then songs, at their best, can make you feel a thought. Or was it think a feeling? The point remains: there's a synesthesia. There's a light around the bend – or is it a haystack in a tunnel? Jump in.

The Forest and the Garden, coming, soon, maybe, to a theater near you. Two friends' journey, rounding the track, approaching the finish line, is completed only to the casual observer. The marathon runners know it's only the first lap. See, cuz, there is evil in this world – worse, apathy – each man and woman gets a piece of it, and each the opportunity to take the long, high, winding road. These United States is the soundtrack of the bloodless revolution, the one the moon makes every day, the trip of one body floating, one thousand reflections echoing into deep space, celestial and human. Our Hearts, For You, An Open Book...