Funhouse

They’re from the heart of the fly-over states. Fuckin’ Capital Hill of Cowtown USA. Denver Colorado. They couldn’t be Los Angeles or East Coast if they tried and they don’t want to and we are all the richer because of it.

Funhouse

This band ain’t got no business acumen. Can’t promote themselves—don’t know a five year plan from a brand name scheme.

But what they do got is soul, and heart and passion and grit and funk and a whole lot of oh yeah and a little bit of uh huh.

MTV done pass em’ by. No poser boys and Disney hit machine girls-- look good first play good not at all—no American Idol hopefuls here; just Christina singing like the gospel revival singers used to do—beltin’ it out or crooning-- whispering like a seductress or laughing like a tovenaar and pulling you in with her whole hearted conviction and a talent that ain’t been seen since Janis or Elle or Billie or fuck that-- since never.

But you got to listen, you got to take the time, turn down the lights and turn up the volume.

You gotta be ready for something real. Not something that is gonna sell an Xbox game or be placed on the Grey’s Anatomy soundtrack or sit comfortably next to Lady Gaga or Taylor Swift.

This is music you need to tell your lovers about, tell your grandma and grandpa about—get your kids to hear em’ get your homies to listen. You got work to do—that Christina from Funhouse, she is bearing her soul, she is laying it down, speaking truths and whispering lies we all so want to hear, need to hear and are gonna touch, feel and absorb.