You are a positive, rapping gym coach who goes to high school gymnasia in the tri-county area and raps along to a CD of beats you bought from this 12-year-old who also sells weed; you don’t know that, though, or you would have changed his life, or something. And your name’s not even Cal.
You all perform (there are five of you and you have like a 2013 Strokes thing going on, so, you are not good) in jean shorts (really nice wordplay, btw, Oscars Wilde), but not the relevant jorts variety, viz., AKA, “cut-offs,” but rather, like, hemmed jean shorts you buy at some store I’ve never heard of and would never go to because WTF yo? Also you are the hungover coke dream of a kid who just moved to Bushwick from Florida to start writing “graf.” Tomorrow you won’t remember the dream but will feel super weird and say things in the vein of, “Dude, I need some coke because I feel like, ‘whaaaaat?’” I hate you. And your dream band.
Until your mid-20s, were convinced the moon was what the sun became at night (nb, I wrote a song called ‘The Moon is the Sun at Night’ once, I think it was mostly B and Dmin. It wasn’t TERRIBLE.) Also, that the wind-chill factor was really the ‘wind-shield’ factor. This isn’t really germane to your music, which is kind of Ministry via Blake Babies.
You are whatevs. IDK y I even wrote this post. First album, ;tldr currently not making much noise on Soundclouud. #lazypost #sorry #hasthismetaphoricalblogmilkshakebeendrunk?
Seriously, you guys need to get out more. Your kitchen isn’t a ‘venue,’ and rehearsing via Skype isn’t helping. You’re all super pale and sound like Blue Album-era Weezer, if Weezer only used a DAW, and were really, super terrible.
I was outside at a Christmas party and my friend was like, and I’m paraphrasing here, but he was like, “Ah, man, all I ate today was like this crappy garbage sushi,” and so I, because I am me, said, “Oh, I love that band. They’re playing at Death by Audio tomorrow.” And this kid who was half listening said, and again, I paraphrase, he said, “Wait, where are they playing?” And that’s enough to get on here. So now you know my “process.” K Merry Christmas!
You think you’re way better than you are.
Your first album, Flat Affect, was recorded in 22 minutes and and is six hours long. Already have recorded next three albums, plus greatest hits. Also, shut up.
Hardcore band, but your shortest song is 34 minutes long. You confuse people, and not in a good, mysterious way, but in like a, what the? kind of deal. Half of your band doesn’t even know what’s going on. Get it together, guys.
Your band is “really intense.” People avoid you on the bus (probably on the subway and street, too). You do lots of pushups. No one has actually ever heard you, but you are rumored to be “a registered sex offender.”
Leader and only member of completely uninfluential Grandpa Wave movement of the second week of April, 2015. All your members have cultivated guts, smell like Vaporub, perform in sweats and shouldn’t be allowed to drive. You all carry Werther’s Originals like cool grandpas, and you hand them out or toss them into the crowd at your gigs, which is awkward because there are only five people at your gigs and none of them even tries to catch. Synth pop, lead singer uses a vocal filter that makes him sound like Jasper from The Simpsons, kind of like how Julian Casablancas used to record his voice.
You sound like a single tear falling in a fountain as you stare at your reflection. Also the vocal interlude from ‘The Beautiful Ones’ by Prince. So, like, sexy yet world-weary talking, mostly about how wonderful you are and how no one appreciates you; other topics are smashing mirrors and walking in the rain with no umbrella but not caring if your hair gets messed up cause like that’s how freakin’ sad you are.
First album, Bromentary Loss of Reason, seminal in the ohgodno-wave movement starting next week after a bad acid trip to be suffered by your only member. John Peel is already describing what he hopes your record will sound like (he’s way wrong though; it’s just gonna be chopped and screwed voicemail messages from your band’s grandma.)