In a universe of infinite bounds, a band of Mikes (Bridavsky, Hoggatt, Notaro) have the sheer talent and purpose of finding the non-existent edge. The Bloomington, Indiana three piece stick out like a sore thumb in a world of binary song structures and stale uninspired musical vision. Immediate sounds and complete obliviousness to hipster rock simultaneously offend, seduce, repel, and violate the music snobs of our time. Imagine Cream's pop structures arranged for the Mahavishnu Orchestra, probing areas untouched by The Wipers, King Crimson, Big Star, or Shellac.
Prepare for a space walk or the 1918 flu: Hosts and humans, books and films, love, events predating the big bang, flight (the paranoia of it), empty hands and sex, fire, power, and water are all developed into mantras fused within voice, electricity, and air particles. The sonics become tightly wedged between a rock and the roll. Fresh and piping hot, but hard and compact, the direct and spastic onslaught descending from contemporaries 30 years previous leaves room for modern rock absurdity. For better or worse, they look to no one for approval. This Indiana trinity are elemental; they dig deeper and Push-Pull harder. And we here at Joyful Noise say, "Thank Yahweh."