The midwest, particularly the part of the midwest Eric D. Johnson hails from, is a largely flatexpanse. Zipping through it on the highway, you’ll see cities and towns rise up in the distance,but blink and you’ll miss other man-made rejoinders to horizontal living dotting the landscape,hill after hill, built from the refuse of the past: landfills. Some of these hills make for greatsledding spots, parks, and trails. Others turn organic waste into compost. The Landfill issomething else entirely: a mountain dominating the landscape of Johnson’s heart.Over the course of his now 25-year career under the Fruit Bats moniker, most of Eric D.Johnson’s output has been the product of patience and fine-tuning. His songs, to borrow aphrase, are slow growers, given life on albums that encompass long stretches of time andmemory. Baby Man changed that – he disallowed himself from referring to material he’dbeen working on before laying the album down, utilizing the mor