LAMB is a nightmare where pop music is heard distantly while you arrive at a scrap yard in a powdered wig. And in this distance is a lithe figure keeping an eye out for shade in a sweltering Baltimore summer. You inch a little bit closer and can see Jordan Romero. He’s wearing a Department of Public Works uniform, blowing the dust off forms exotic and broken-down, talking about sea pigeons and lemons under ice. All throughout the Maryland region you can hear it, a grinding, grumbling sticky sound like melodic dump trucks tracing the city. In this place all popular and unpopular music is left to bake in a hot car.

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