Las Vegas is overwhelming. It blinds you with its lights and deafens you with its sounds, amuses you with its entertainment, and confuses you with its libations. When you’re done there you undoubtedly need a shower. If not to wash off the regret, then to cleanse away the second hand cigarette smoke that most likely clings to your skin. It is always compelling for a passerby to consider how one could possibly come to refer to this atmosphere as home. It seems such a depressing concept. That scene from the beginning of Swingers when Vaughn and Favreau go to the beautiful babies’ trailer and she’s got all the stuffed animals on the couch in the “living room,” that’s what it brings to mind, dilapidation. Or maybe like Deniro in Casino, all white everything, marble and gold, extravagant. There are countless great films that will attest to Vegas’ extremes, yet there’s not much that paints the picture of the everyday folks not living on those highs or lows.

The Rusty Maples by all accounts are just some dudes, and they told us that they make there home in Vegas. So they’re just some dudes from Vegas. Not sure if they live in trailer parks or mansions, but it seems probably neither. Seems they’re just ordinary guys trying to be rock stars. They feel shit and see shit and write a song about it just like somebody in New York or San Francisco would. Well, only, they’re in Vegas, you know, like from Fear and Loathing