DECEMBER 4, 2008 - For those of you who haven't partaken of the new Bottom Lounge yet, it is a prime example of both the accomplishments and mistakes venues have made in Chicago. Nestled beneath the Green/Pink line on Lake Street just east of Ashland, it isn't exactly transit-friendly to those who are vehicularly challenged or choose not to risk their lives and their licenses by driving drunk. Their modest 20-space parking lot encourages the latter, while the only 24-hour public transportation option within walking distance is the Ashland bus line, whose overnight service is spotty at best.
Unfortunately, Bottom Lounge is run like an indie club with an inflated cover. Booked exclusively by MP Shows, we're revisiting the same mistakes that one can only assume had a hand in driving The Note to its new format (I.E. free of live music). I am yet to attend a show at Bottom Lounge where the cover has been less than $10 - in most cases far higher, be it a Wednesday night or a Saturday. While they've secured some viable acts thus far and offer both all ages and 18+ shows, the steep cover and moderately high drink prices (in combination with the inaccessibility of the venue) create a product that's hard to promote to a demographic known for being consistently broke.
From a musician's perspective, I would rather not make a dime off the door on a full house than Bottom Lounge's alternative: playing to a tenth of the room's capacity just to secure insignificant compensation at the end of the night. One issue Bottom Lounge seems to be gleefully unaware of is the fact that even some artists are uncomfortable promoting shows with such an unreasonable cover. I have already seen several examples of bands scheduled for Bottom Lounge encouraging their fans to "come to the next one" because the ticket price is so outrageous.
All of that said, Bottom Lounge has made some serious strides in show production. The venue's main room is a 700+ capacity gem with sound that rivals the quality of Martyrs' when the right engineer is on duty. I have never once needed earplugs, even at one metal show I attended. That is a beautiful thing for live music in this town. The acoustics of the room's layout are efficiently exploited, and the audio balance is decent and well-balanced throughout the room (even in the corridor that houses the washrooms).
The main room, however, does have one major drawback: if you want to sit, your best bet is on the floor along the wall, because the four measly tables in back are bound to be taken up by a barrage of coats, purses, and bored girlfriends of the band. There is a good stretch of wall on either side of the stage that has decent sightlines (minus the gargantuan ceiling-mounted PA that would block out stage left or right, respectively) that would be perfect for a row of unobtrusive tables. This is an easy fix, and someone is bound to figure it out soon.
The Volcano Room upstairs features a Tiki Bar and gorgeous deck with skyline views. The glaring flaw is in the realization that they must have run out of money putting the second floor together. The bar and deck are immaculate, but the rest of the room is exposed brick and windows looking out onto the train tracks. Even more unfortunately, the room is partitioned by the wall housing the elevator. This creates a main section, which you walk into upon entry, a rear alcove with nothing in it, and a front alcove, where live bands are hosted. While the room is set up nicely for a private party or DJ event with plenty of tables and an extra two incidental dance floors because of the room division, bands are set with their backs to a brick wall, facing a brick wall. This layout creates acoustics that challenge the poor sound quality of a "venue" like Ronny's. The throwback from the brick creates an abrasive excess of midrange, making even the grooviest soul groups sound like they're being broadcast on AM radio. Bottom Lounge would be wise to discontinue live shows in the Volcano Room and further explore a DJ format, as the room is far more forgiving in a dancehall setting.
The downstairs lounge is aesthetically well-designed, accepting all club patrons with its main entrance. It provides a nice reprieve from the main room between (or during) bands with booths, tables, and a few wide-screen TVs, but features an identical layout to the Volcano Room above. There is the same are sectioned off by the walls in the back of the room that allows for a more secluded lounge feel. Sadly, the blaring jukebox/dj set-up doesn't allow for any cozy conversation. I rarely advocate more televisions in a bar, but if you're going to be in a setting this loud, a friendly chat can be a chore.
Bottom Lounge prides itself on an extensive beer selection, but charges accordingly. A can of PBR will set you back $4, a well drink $5, and a glass of house wine $6. From a cosmetic perspective, the bar itself warrants these prices, but when taking into consideration the cost of transit and the expense of the gratuitous cover charge, one can easily end up spending $50 on a two-cocktail night, which is absolutely unreasonable for a venue that hosts primarily inconsequential local acts. Their food menu looks appetizing, but the food itself is only a slight step above normal bar fare, though it is priced acceptably for the environment. That said, I don't know anyone who would trust a bar that boasts booking Local H for New Year's Eve to handle their $12 salmon fillet.
Based on the main room alone, Bottom Lounge is capable of becoming one of the most prestigious and profitable venues in Chicago, but it's not going to happen until there are some serious changes in its business structure.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Monday, November 10, 2008
Year Long Disaster / Bottom Lounge
NOVEMBER 7, 2008 - Year Long Disaster had the (mis?)fortune of being sandwiched between two largely unrelated (yet well-attended) metal acts this past Friday Night. Granted, the new Bottom Lounge has a gloriously designed sound system that left everyone in the crowd voluntarily earplug-free, but your dear Intoxikatie ain't really one for metal, let alone emo instrumental metal (the opener) and/or abrasive roleplaying-inspired metal (the headliner). It's still all metal.
YLD is an interesting band with an interesting predicament. They can't repeat a fucking chorus to save their lives. In a strong rock & roll trio that lies somewhere between T Rex, AC/DC, and The Kinks (coincidentally, a member of which sired YLD frontman Daniel Davies - or so I was led to believe), the riffs jump out and grab the listener but there's no hook to hold ya there.
The kids have brilliant stage presence. Bassist Richie Mullins has a charming animatronic-esque focus-on-my-crotch rock stance and a creepy "been there, done you" smile that could charm the pants off many a groupie, while Davies hops about like an angsty lovechild of Angus Young and Mick Jagger that grew up headbanging in a harmless "Nirvana is considered a hard rock band" kind of way.
Rumour has it their touring drummer (a skinny, shirtless Jew with his name embroidered on the back of his belt - how L.A.) isn't a regular participant in the outfit, which is a damn shame. Now, having never heard the regular line-up I can't comment on it, but the Half-Naked Heb drove the set from end to end, hammering away on the douchiest set of rock-worn translucent drums I've ever seen.
Their sound is surprisingly full for a three-piece. These guys know how to manage an arrangement. Davies possesses the one of the most important (yet consistently looked over) qualities of a singular guitarist - the ability to solo without sounding like a complete jackass. This is helped in part by Mullins, who I caught strumming a handful of powerchords on his bass. I am curious, however, why anyone relegated to touring in a cargo van would spend upwards of $2k on an SVT when he plays his entire set with the same distortion setting. The tone works for the band, buddy, but jeez, buy something cheaper and maybe you could afford road cases for the kit.
Year Long Disaster is a band with some serious promise and a damn cool sound; if they worked with a decent production/songwriting team, they'd be golden. Oh, and they should probably change that godawful emo name.
official website
Myspace
YLD is an interesting band with an interesting predicament. They can't repeat a fucking chorus to save their lives. In a strong rock & roll trio that lies somewhere between T Rex, AC/DC, and The Kinks (coincidentally, a member of which sired YLD frontman Daniel Davies - or so I was led to believe), the riffs jump out and grab the listener but there's no hook to hold ya there.
The kids have brilliant stage presence. Bassist Richie Mullins has a charming animatronic-esque focus-on-my-crotch rock stance and a creepy "been there, done you" smile that could charm the pants off many a groupie, while Davies hops about like an angsty lovechild of Angus Young and Mick Jagger that grew up headbanging in a harmless "Nirvana is considered a hard rock band" kind of way.
Rumour has it their touring drummer (a skinny, shirtless Jew with his name embroidered on the back of his belt - how L.A.) isn't a regular participant in the outfit, which is a damn shame. Now, having never heard the regular line-up I can't comment on it, but the Half-Naked Heb drove the set from end to end, hammering away on the douchiest set of rock-worn translucent drums I've ever seen.
Their sound is surprisingly full for a three-piece. These guys know how to manage an arrangement. Davies possesses the one of the most important (yet consistently looked over) qualities of a singular guitarist - the ability to solo without sounding like a complete jackass. This is helped in part by Mullins, who I caught strumming a handful of powerchords on his bass. I am curious, however, why anyone relegated to touring in a cargo van would spend upwards of $2k on an SVT when he plays his entire set with the same distortion setting. The tone works for the band, buddy, but jeez, buy something cheaper and maybe you could afford road cases for the kit.
Year Long Disaster is a band with some serious promise and a damn cool sound; if they worked with a decent production/songwriting team, they'd be golden. Oh, and they should probably change that godawful emo name.
official website
Myspace
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Mr. Gnome / Darkroom
AUGUST 31, 2008 - Mr. Gnome is a White Stripes-inspired duo with a welcome gender reversal. Nicole Barille plays an adequate but uninspired guitar while her partner, Sam Meister, performs an aural abortion on a shiny silver drum kit. Sure, he's got more range than Meg White - but that's not saying much, now is it?
Mr. Gnome exploits the ends of the volume spectrum as an attempt at musical depth and fails in a way that makes you wonder if you're about to have a heart attack. While Meister can keep a beat and throw in a creative fill every so often, the kid would benefit heavily from realizing the middle of the road is what creates a dynamic soundscape, not abrupt and unsettling transitions between "hi-hat" and "loud".
The act is almost salvaged by the penetrating voice of Barille, a young woman with unblemished control over her pitch and a vocal timbre that resonates in all the right places within the listener. Her tone encompasses the richness of Bjork's (minus the obnoxious quarter-tone bullshit she's laced into every album since Homogenic), with a choppy, attitude-driven bent a la Nelly Furtado's first record.
Unfortunately, a having an exceptional singer is not even close to cutting it for this Cleveland, Ohio band. One could assume Barille is trying to tank a potential career with the "indie cred" disease (an ailment reminiscent of Chicago's own Rachael Yamagata) by pressuring a strong, unique, and captivating voice into awkward and unpleasant song structure.
If Barille were to drop the guitar, swap out her drummer, and listen to a couple Diane Warren tunes, she'd easily become a promising talent in pop music and likely be snapped up by the first label willing to shelve her debut solo record.
Myspace
Mr. Gnome exploits the ends of the volume spectrum as an attempt at musical depth and fails in a way that makes you wonder if you're about to have a heart attack. While Meister can keep a beat and throw in a creative fill every so often, the kid would benefit heavily from realizing the middle of the road is what creates a dynamic soundscape, not abrupt and unsettling transitions between "hi-hat" and "loud".
The act is almost salvaged by the penetrating voice of Barille, a young woman with unblemished control over her pitch and a vocal timbre that resonates in all the right places within the listener. Her tone encompasses the richness of Bjork's (minus the obnoxious quarter-tone bullshit she's laced into every album since Homogenic), with a choppy, attitude-driven bent a la Nelly Furtado's first record.
Unfortunately, a having an exceptional singer is not even close to cutting it for this Cleveland, Ohio band. One could assume Barille is trying to tank a potential career with the "indie cred" disease (an ailment reminiscent of Chicago's own Rachael Yamagata) by pressuring a strong, unique, and captivating voice into awkward and unpleasant song structure.
If Barille were to drop the guitar, swap out her drummer, and listen to a couple Diane Warren tunes, she'd easily become a promising talent in pop music and likely be snapped up by the first label willing to shelve her debut solo record.
Myspace
Semi Precious Weapons / Cobra Lounge
AUGUST 30, 2008 - New York City's Semi Precious Weapons graced the stage at Cobra Lounge this past weekend, following blah-rockers Black Actress and Last Vegas. As is typical of SPW shows, the opening slots provided the standard desperation - yet another couple of local bands trying to cling to the assumed importance of being on a bill with these next-big-thing garage glam darlings.
Semi Precious Weapons has progressed exponentially since I first remember seeing them in Chicago (Summer of '06, Martyrs'). While the band put on an impressive display of glitter and anthematic rock for that gig, the audience capped out at fifteen people, staff included. It's hard to play off the energy in the room when the waitress is the only one dancing. (Plus, it's kind of awkward for the waitress.)
Back to last Saturday night: Justin "Precious" Tranter led the foursome in heels most women couldn't handle and an attitude most queens would drop their panties for. Handstands, dry humping, and begging the audience to show him their tits were all par for the course. Tranter's performances always show that he's got balls - and so do his ballet poses in those almost-opaque pantyhose he plays off as clothing.
Bassist Cole Whittle thrashed around on stage like ADHD is a fashion trend, and while this set in particular was not wholly exemplary of his capabilities, he played off being a tad drunk by being more than a tad over the top. His tone is impeccable, especially when he climbs the neck, but his stage antics are what make him an unbelievable performer.
Aaron Lee Tasjan and Dan Crean round out the set on guitar and drums, respectively. Crean's little-girl titties gave away his age as he bounced on his throne, while youth shines through every aspect of Tasjan, even occasionally in his playing. Regardless of their age, both are talented enough to make musicians 20 years their senior start twitching about losing their cred.
While this wasn't the Weapons' best show in Chicago to date, anthems like their self-titled Semi Precious Weapons, Magnetic Baby, and Rock and Roll Never Looked So Beautiful got the crowd energized - dancing, jumping, and flashing titties as per Tranter's frequent requests. There is only more promise to come while this band solidifies its reputation as the aforementioned next-big-thing.
Myspace
website
Semi Precious Weapons has progressed exponentially since I first remember seeing them in Chicago (Summer of '06, Martyrs'). While the band put on an impressive display of glitter and anthematic rock for that gig, the audience capped out at fifteen people, staff included. It's hard to play off the energy in the room when the waitress is the only one dancing. (Plus, it's kind of awkward for the waitress.)
Back to last Saturday night: Justin "Precious" Tranter led the foursome in heels most women couldn't handle and an attitude most queens would drop their panties for. Handstands, dry humping, and begging the audience to show him their tits were all par for the course. Tranter's performances always show that he's got balls - and so do his ballet poses in those almost-opaque pantyhose he plays off as clothing.
Bassist Cole Whittle thrashed around on stage like ADHD is a fashion trend, and while this set in particular was not wholly exemplary of his capabilities, he played off being a tad drunk by being more than a tad over the top. His tone is impeccable, especially when he climbs the neck, but his stage antics are what make him an unbelievable performer.
Aaron Lee Tasjan and Dan Crean round out the set on guitar and drums, respectively. Crean's little-girl titties gave away his age as he bounced on his throne, while youth shines through every aspect of Tasjan, even occasionally in his playing. Regardless of their age, both are talented enough to make musicians 20 years their senior start twitching about losing their cred.
While this wasn't the Weapons' best show in Chicago to date, anthems like their self-titled Semi Precious Weapons, Magnetic Baby, and Rock and Roll Never Looked So Beautiful got the crowd energized - dancing, jumping, and flashing titties as per Tranter's frequent requests. There is only more promise to come while this band solidifies its reputation as the aforementioned next-big-thing.
Myspace
website
Friday, August 29, 2008
District 97 / Silvie's Lounge
AUGUST 27, 08 - District 97: prog rock meets American Idol.
Truth be told, that's all there is to it.
Picture this: a television-pretty girl in short-shorts stands before a keyboard player with a jewfro and glasses, a bassist playing his guitar high enough that he could tweak his own nipple with a flick of the wrist, a guitarist who didn't make the Panic at the Disco! audition because he's got acne scars, and a drummer who needed a signed permission slip to stay out late enough for the show. You could almost visualize him loading his kit into the back of his mom's Civic. And there ain't no city sticker, that's for sure.
Vocalist Leslie Hunt (a recent American Idol reject who has a far more palatable solo career) fronts this five-piece ensemble of Dungeons and Dragons math rock. Hunt's voice is obviously the highlight of this quintet, but due to some very questionable logic, her talents are only utilized in every other song (by my count, four in the set - hey, it is prog rock), and at that, only every 24 bars or so.
Each song featured a barrage of light-speed triplets from the bassist (which is admirable for someone who plays without a pick), but after it kept on (and on and on), I started to get that nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach that only happens when I get to the last castle in Super Mario. That could, however, be the effect of listening to King Koopa's own personal soundtrack for 30 minutes straight. The drummer, while capable of what he was trying to accomplish, seemed to be forcing each time change. While math rock is just that, there is a lot to be said for feeling and understanding a groove, even if it's in 7/8. The keyboard player was a source of much amusement - and not just because of his overwhelming Semitic image. He seemed to be on top of his game, leading the band towards a more tangible sound. He could still use a few years playing with someone over the age of 25 before he can play a worthy role in a prog rock band, but the kid has potential.
Insert Intoxikatie's favourite joke ever:
Q. What are the two kinds of keyboard players?
A. Jewish and bad.
Math rock is one of those dishes best served lukewarm. There has to be a balance with current popular music trends in order to remain relevant and, frankly, listenable. District 97, while appearing to be very talented players individually (and likely all freaky jazz majors at any number of local institutions I've dropped out of), have very little chemistry on stage - musically or aesthetically. Perhaps that 20-sided die should be saved for their roleplaying, not choosing the next change in time signature.
Myspace
Truth be told, that's all there is to it.
Picture this: a television-pretty girl in short-shorts stands before a keyboard player with a jewfro and glasses, a bassist playing his guitar high enough that he could tweak his own nipple with a flick of the wrist, a guitarist who didn't make the Panic at the Disco! audition because he's got acne scars, and a drummer who needed a signed permission slip to stay out late enough for the show. You could almost visualize him loading his kit into the back of his mom's Civic. And there ain't no city sticker, that's for sure.
Vocalist Leslie Hunt (a recent American Idol reject who has a far more palatable solo career) fronts this five-piece ensemble of Dungeons and Dragons math rock. Hunt's voice is obviously the highlight of this quintet, but due to some very questionable logic, her talents are only utilized in every other song (by my count, four in the set - hey, it is prog rock), and at that, only every 24 bars or so.
Each song featured a barrage of light-speed triplets from the bassist (which is admirable for someone who plays without a pick), but after it kept on (and on and on), I started to get that nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach that only happens when I get to the last castle in Super Mario. That could, however, be the effect of listening to King Koopa's own personal soundtrack for 30 minutes straight. The drummer, while capable of what he was trying to accomplish, seemed to be forcing each time change. While math rock is just that, there is a lot to be said for feeling and understanding a groove, even if it's in 7/8. The keyboard player was a source of much amusement - and not just because of his overwhelming Semitic image. He seemed to be on top of his game, leading the band towards a more tangible sound. He could still use a few years playing with someone over the age of 25 before he can play a worthy role in a prog rock band, but the kid has potential.
Insert Intoxikatie's favourite joke ever:
Q. What are the two kinds of keyboard players?
A. Jewish and bad.
Math rock is one of those dishes best served lukewarm. There has to be a balance with current popular music trends in order to remain relevant and, frankly, listenable. District 97, while appearing to be very talented players individually (and likely all freaky jazz majors at any number of local institutions I've dropped out of), have very little chemistry on stage - musically or aesthetically. Perhaps that 20-sided die should be saved for their roleplaying, not choosing the next change in time signature.
Myspace
Saturday, August 2, 2008
The Glorious Vapors / Ronny's
AUGUST 1, 2008 - Any rock show at Ronny's is a tragedy. What used to be a cute neighborhood hole-in-the-wall filled with Latino gayboys and the bolder strands of the initial Logan Square artist invasion dancing cheek-to-cheek (think lower) to Los Fabulosos Cadillacs on the jukebox and swigging canned beer 'til the wee hours of the morning has become just another shitty rock dive. But we'll save my self-exempting rant on gentrification for another day.
For a band whose members obviously have a bit of experience performing, The Glorious Vapors should certainly know better than to open their set with a seven-minute ambient jam. Whether this was an orchestrated "piece" or a bunch of otherwise adequate musicians attempting improvisational "noise art" I'll never know, but it was an offensive and exhausting introduction to a show that didn't end up being much better. Maybe they were giving the crowd a chance to escape, who knows.
The band's second song was exponentially more promising, with a defined beat and melody - who could have guessed these things would make music more palatable? The drummer, equipped with a set of brushes and a receding widow's peak, initially reminded me of a young Victor DeLorenzo. That is, until he picked up a set of sticks for their next number. One has to wonder how a percussionist capable of playing with such dramatic dynamics on one tune has no perception of when he is playing too loud. In a cement room. On every other song.
The guitarist and lead vocalist actually has a unique timbre to his voice which could be quite appealing if he had any control over it. Attention, male singers: vocal lessons don't mean you're not rock & roll, it just means that you don't want to sound like a pubescent Eddie Vedder that just took a hit to his hairless groin.
The bassist came prepared with an upright and the obligatory white-upright-player's mohawk. Despite his predictable taste in hairstyles, he was probably the most competent player of the foursome. There were a few wrong notes here and there, but that's nothing a little practice and a new band won't fix.
I'd like to comment on the other guitarist/vocalist, but I can't remember much about the guy. Perhaps that's the comment in itself. His harmonies were in tune, but otherwise he was invisible.
I consider myself to be pretty open-minded when it comes to genres, but I just couldn't get into a full set of songs that aspire to be left off the O Brother Where Art Thou soundtrack. It's possible that I missed the trend, but I can't imagine "noise folk" to ever become a profitable or worthwhile style of music.
Myspace
For a band whose members obviously have a bit of experience performing, The Glorious Vapors should certainly know better than to open their set with a seven-minute ambient jam. Whether this was an orchestrated "piece" or a bunch of otherwise adequate musicians attempting improvisational "noise art" I'll never know, but it was an offensive and exhausting introduction to a show that didn't end up being much better. Maybe they were giving the crowd a chance to escape, who knows.
The band's second song was exponentially more promising, with a defined beat and melody - who could have guessed these things would make music more palatable? The drummer, equipped with a set of brushes and a receding widow's peak, initially reminded me of a young Victor DeLorenzo. That is, until he picked up a set of sticks for their next number. One has to wonder how a percussionist capable of playing with such dramatic dynamics on one tune has no perception of when he is playing too loud. In a cement room. On every other song.
The guitarist and lead vocalist actually has a unique timbre to his voice which could be quite appealing if he had any control over it. Attention, male singers: vocal lessons don't mean you're not rock & roll, it just means that you don't want to sound like a pubescent Eddie Vedder that just took a hit to his hairless groin.
The bassist came prepared with an upright and the obligatory white-upright-player's mohawk. Despite his predictable taste in hairstyles, he was probably the most competent player of the foursome. There were a few wrong notes here and there, but that's nothing a little practice and a new band won't fix.
I'd like to comment on the other guitarist/vocalist, but I can't remember much about the guy. Perhaps that's the comment in itself. His harmonies were in tune, but otherwise he was invisible.
I consider myself to be pretty open-minded when it comes to genres, but I just couldn't get into a full set of songs that aspire to be left off the O Brother Where Art Thou soundtrack. It's possible that I missed the trend, but I can't imagine "noise folk" to ever become a profitable or worthwhile style of music.
Myspace
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Shame Club / Pontiac Café
JULY 19, 2008 - Despite an inexplicable sudden fever, Shame Club frontman Jon Longhair put on a brave - if sweaty - face and powered through what was, all-in-all, a pretty strong set and a massive improvement over their last Chicago visit (April, Quenchers Saloon). The hard-rock-you-could-cuddle-to quartet hails from St. Louis, Missouri and has a knack for bringing a metaphorical cheeky wink to classic rock & roll douchebaggery.
The boys would do well to learn that the size of their testicles is readily evident within their solos and picture-perfect rock stances, not in their overall volume. Sure, the full stacks are a cute aesthetic, but for a bunch of guys who are too old for MTV and too young for VH1, it seems they've really relaxed into the idea of losing what little is left of their hearing. Resident complainypants and Pontiac Cafe owner, Buddy, interrupted mid-set to demand they turn down from 11, and despite the fact that he was right, the band finished the night a little disheartened.
In reality, the volume adjustment allowed the vocals to come through (something most all-male-all-thirtysomething bands seem to be terrified of) and the pop roots of Shame Club's songwriting became appealingly obvious. Perhaps if they hadn't blown out their ears playing through the most excessive set up any dive bar has seen, they'd learn to mix themselves on stage and subsequently become one of the strongest rock bands currently touring the Midwest.
Official Website / Myspace
The boys would do well to learn that the size of their testicles is readily evident within their solos and picture-perfect rock stances, not in their overall volume. Sure, the full stacks are a cute aesthetic, but for a bunch of guys who are too old for MTV and too young for VH1, it seems they've really relaxed into the idea of losing what little is left of their hearing. Resident complainypants and Pontiac Cafe owner, Buddy, interrupted mid-set to demand they turn down from 11, and despite the fact that he was right, the band finished the night a little disheartened.
In reality, the volume adjustment allowed the vocals to come through (something most all-male-all-thirtysomething bands seem to be terrified of) and the pop roots of Shame Club's songwriting became appealingly obvious. Perhaps if they hadn't blown out their ears playing through the most excessive set up any dive bar has seen, they'd learn to mix themselves on stage and subsequently become one of the strongest rock bands currently touring the Midwest.
Official Website / Myspace
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