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Who can be trusted to channel that sorta cigarette danglin' between the lips, worn denim jacket, wind swept hair, retro cool while their walkin' like some atom-brained, circuit-hearted detached android? The answer is here: the Lipschitz, a coupla Georgian expats who've come to Chicago serve a potent mix of that Dead Moon Americana, that snotty OC surf-punk, and what I'm sure Reatards fans THINK they're listening to.