11 pop punk cuts straight outta Portland! Here's what Robert Smith (no, not that one) has to say: I saw them all the time for a couple of weeks, it was the damndest thing. Eating a humble hangover omelette at 3 PM, I'd look out of the cafe window, or down the block as I retied my shoe, and I'd see these two miscreants sauntering by all a-deck in polka dots and pointy shoes with looks of Baltic Lostness on their faces, among all the besweatervested, bearded, bicycling arrogant semi-youths of Hawthorne Blvd. Then I saw them, Stevie and Nico, at an art gallery show where a chubby naked guy with a rabbit mask and a Flying V was having his way with us. I was there with my roommate, and we asked them if they wanted to play at this show we were having at the uh Dead End House (aptly named, RIP). We figured there were probably and band. They were, and they did. It was great. "GREAT SCOTT! PEOPLE PLAY THIS STUFF?" Then they left the country for a while, came back, and I joined the band on lead guitar, along with Patrick Mackenzie on drums. It's been about two months. The recordings herein were made before that, in their motherland, the great Midwest, the bulk of them coming from an album recorded in 3 days on Dexedrine in a Saint Louis bar.
Youthbitch! The world needs you like a fish needs a bicycle: desperately, or it will never evolve.