My Home's In Heaven, I'm Going There: Depression-Era Autos

The great migration across the plains and over Texas mountain passes and Prohibition-era Tucson and innumberable movable Hooverville speakeasy drinking glasses to California's Promised Land of easy orange-pickin' and subdevelopment makes for a whole dirty shitload of romance. Nobody captured the essence of it like A.P. Carter. Nobody recontextualized said essence like Uncle Tupelo, and it one of the movement's icons was the absolute inverse of the hot rod — yet it required the same level of go-hung American ingenuity. We've been to Salinas, but we're not John Steinbeck. Los Jalops' recommendation? Go re-read some Steinbeck, listen to Dave Alvin and then build a Tin Lizzie (or similar) out of sackcloth and ashes to save your family.

Related:
West, North South, Eastbound and Down [Internal]