Moto Grasso

An arm waving Animalistic drummer who has the frenetic possessed energy of Keith Moon and the flair of John French, wields a cadillac like it's a WMD, and annihilates any competion at left-handed foosball. A flailing, slashy, feedback-screaming, hyper-active guitarist raised in Pennsylvania farm country on pixie sticks, rock and roll and hot rods, who preaches more Cheetah Chrome than Jimmy Page and is known to literally blind fans during sweaty guitar-noise siezures. Fingally, a Chicago-born bassist who looks like a college linebacker, prefers brakeless bicycles to automobiles and is possessed of a twisted knack for bizarre sense/nonsense lyrics; a classic Jeckyll and Hyde who might crush your skull one moment and methodically grind out the low end like a math-geek with no care for time signatures the next moment.

Rumble, grit, screech, snarl, dissonance, and bombast. Rhythmic noisescapes that could succumb at any second to entropy, falling utterly to pieces, or contrariwise, slam lockstep into sudden rocking overdrive, or better yet, both. Complex and deliberate composition and interplay undulate beneath the surface as the sound amasses an overwhelming sense of chaos, driving inexorably forward. Dual vocals match and contrast, spouting sense and nonsense at once. Stream of consciousness one instant followed by stark logic the next. It’s near sonic anarchy but with a democratic intent and deliberation. Equal parts punk, math, rock, and indie, perhaps with hints of art, prog, or jazz.

Where does this come from? These three hardly dare to talk about it, even among themselves. To speak of it might be to lose the mystic, pagan energy they’ve conjured; an unexplained and unexpected collaborative synergy that simply IS, where the result is more than the simple sum of its parts and where the collective compass might turn their hearts and music hurtling in any direction.
The sound that resulted was nothing they had expected, but it did happen to be almost exactly what they were searching for.

Despite failing to find a suitable lead vocalist they persevered and eventually leapt the vocal hurdle themselves and have landed at least somewhat upright, although perhaps teetering perilously, on the other side but still moving forward, racing down a path blazed by the likes of The Ramones, Black Flag, Sonic Youth, Minor Threat, the Minutemen, Big Black and many more. Racing to join the ranks of bands still fighting the commercial machine from the trenches, most to meet an unfortunate and untimely demise. Their only hope is to recruit more disenchanted musicians and listeners to join the fight, and perhaps earn a final respite under a simple marker to remind others where they stood.