Always play to the bone of the teradactyl that you never expected to find in your own backyard.  Excavation of the truth.  Play it simple to the highest pulse.

Funny to think that there are probably a million (yes , a million) bands on the same wavelength as us right now, isn’t it?  We’ve all got bills to pay, futures to ignore, relatives to pay courtesy to, beers to drink and girlfriends (and boyfriends in some cases) to break up with or get dumped by.  In the morning, most of us will get up and go to our jobs which seem to suck us fucking dry to the point where we can’t find the melon in the melon patch that’s going to just barely keep us alive.  Well, maybe it’s not quite that dramatic, but our ancestors who came over here via boat or Bering straight or well-disciplined mountain lion or whatever…I can’t help but think that they’d look at the lot of us and end up scratching their heads in confusion to the point where they’d scab over.

Nevertheless, we plug on.  Why?  I can’t speak for anyone else (and anyone else who might be reading this right now is probably thinking “Thank fucking God!”), but I think it’s because the sounds that I’ve heard coming out of various speaker systems over my insignificant, honkified, suburban lifetime have given me a reason to live.  Whatever I can’t put my finger on, it lives in the sounds coming out of those speakers.

It’s the vans, the shitty PA systems, the woefully underpacked clubs, the piss damaged bathrooms, the bands that you play with who’s music makes you want to get sick out back (and who may very well think the same of you), the bands that you play with that produce that cheshire grin, that brief moment 3/4 of the way through a set when it all briefly falls together before it all falls apart again, the friends who come out on a Wednesday night for your 12:15am set at the Possum Lounge in SouthWest Bumblefuck, the money spent on recordings nobody outside of a few select people that you’d take a bullet for will ever hear, the sweat, the lost sleep, the downright horniness, the fleeting elation…

It’s all of that.  There’s no question, you take the shitstains with the blown angel’s kisses and the shitstains are far more abundant as any band who has slugged it out can tell you.  As the representative for me and no one else, it all comes back to that thing you can’t put your finger on.  What couldn’t be said in normal, everyday speech, what couldn’t be expressed in a stride down the sidewalk or a glance at a girl on the subway…it’s all there for you to simply soak up with your ears.  Though I think I often take it for granted (because I was probably dropped on my head as a kid more than me beloved ma wants to admit), I can’t convey how truly fucking grateful I am for it all.

Uncle Pauley is working on a machine that milks cows but attends to their emotional needs.

Dr. Q. is hard at work in his mad scientist lab up on his mountain lair.  It’s classified…but will blow your mind…eventually.

Jimtronicus is hard at work on constructing a motorcycle which he intends to ride to the moon.

Mr. B. is late to bed but still early to rise.  He will never die.

Godfather Bob….well, he’s the guru.  ’nuff said.

Scott Robot roams the streets in heaven-sent vigilantism.  If you do wrong, be best prepared for him to show up and do right.  It will be efficient, fierce and not pretty at all…for you.

Me?  I float on the wind.  Just lucky to fucking be here.

We will remain.  Beyond the breaking of the axels, until the stars all fade away.

Love,
Chucky Bronson

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