Sometimes, I swear to god, Sage‘s skin is made out of pure chainmail. He‘s damn pissed and armored up-yet he can still peer out, all squinty and suspicious, clanking a rusty ruckus with his twisted rhymes. With his second official release, the malcontent is back in the yard, kicking at pavement with the frustration grinding off the soles of his shoes, cutting a bombastic step with scornful rips of guitar. A Healthy Distrust doesn‘t stay quiet for long before the aggression rattles out from clenched fists.