Quiet Life started playing together in the Spring, on that first good day of the year, when the sun’s finally in its place and birds make sense and you are back on your porch, or your roof, or your lawn, and you’re not by yourself. With roots on the Jersey Shore, sparks flew when they met further north in New London, where New England meets the Sound. From there, they ran down a dream to the California Coast, all the way to San Luis Obispo, and then fled the promised land for the northern charm of Portland, Oregon.

Just a pair of brothers and a few good friends in a van that runs on waste veggie oil. Somebody hits the stereo. “Where’re the keys?” “Watch the road.” “Turn it up.” As a band, they caught a break that night snow fell on the stretch of highway between Nashville & Memphis, when the cars bundled up like an endless string of red Christmas lights. They’ve toured with Dr. Dog, Alabama Shakes, The Lumineers and played with your time, your heart and your women. There was one show, when the floor was bouncing, and the ice was spinning, and somebody screamed, “THIS.” Then there was the 3½-hour set at some backwoods lodge in northern Alaska, all originals except one Neil cover.

Quiet Life is an American band that knows the road better than you know your own cell phone. From Portland to Asbury Park to the California Coast. Remember to check your mirrors. Cut the wheel. Flash your brights at the big rigs and let ’em pass.