Our singer really likes flowers. And what can we say? A lot of Silo songs are written about girls. And love. And sex. After all, we know that sex sells. “Pistol Whipped” is a playful twist on a few puns. Obviously a “pistol” is a gun, but a “pistil” is also the female...

“Wait, more saloon piano!?” I thought, listening to the mix for yet another romping Silo smash. This time, we had just a few seconds of the piano before “8 Seconds” erupts into something of a rodeo anthem, nodding its name toward the amount of time a bull rider has to...

“We are Silo,” is what the album opener “Start the Show” screams to me. The original song demo, as often happens in Silo, was incredibly similar to the finished product. One of Silo’s founding guitar players and co-writers tends to compose these wonderfully heavy and...

“There’s a place outside of Denver, a mile high and bluebird sky,” I whispered, tapping the end of a pen against my chin. “Son of a bitch,” I thought, “now there’s an opening line…!” I scribbled the words quickly across the dry edge of my dampened bar napkin and...

Our singer really likes flowers. And what can we say? A lot of Silo songs are written about girls. And love. And sex. After all, we know that sex sells. “Pistol Whipped” is a playful twist on a few puns. Obviously a “pistol” is a gun, but a “pistil” is also the female...

“Wait, more saloon piano!?” I thought, listening to the mix for yet another romping Silo smash. This time, we had just a few seconds of the piano before “8 Seconds” erupts into something of a rodeo anthem, nodding its name toward the amount of time a bull rider has to...

“We are Silo,” is what the album opener “Start the Show” screams to me. The original song demo, as often happens in Silo, was incredibly similar to the finished product. One of Silo’s founding guitar players and co-writers tends to compose these wonderfully heavy and...

“There’s a place outside of Denver, a mile high and bluebird sky,” I whispered, tapping the end of a pen against my chin. “Son of a bitch,” I thought, “now there’s an opening line…!” I scribbled the words quickly across the dry edge of my dampened bar napkin and...

My first memories of the sun were from behind the smudged windshield of an old farm pickup truck (in what once was Indian territory) riding through Northern New Mexico. I was no more than five years old, sandwiched in the bench seat between my Uncle and my Grandad,...