The little band that could (Here ya go Jeffry)
Shy girl from Orange County, smirking in line for Big Thunder as a rinky dink Rock Candy Mountain plays on banjo in the narrow stairway of the queue. You can smell her hair and with it, the glimmer of new. It love boils your blood and makes the hair on your neck stand like soldiers. You've seen her and lost her all night long, in every line from here to the Mountain and back, from the Mountain the Caribbean and back, but now, the park is closing, and while you squeeze that last drop from a sponge called the "the coaster's faster at night", a strange sadness sets down on you, a fear you'll never see her again and you KNOW that it is now that the leap must be taken and you cling and you grasp for the words and you die on the steps and you feel the hope like it was your co-pilot. This is the feeling, this is what's real, this dream that anything can happen. That as long as you have bootstraps and the will, you can reach beyond your grasp, and here, in the little stairwell of one Big Thunder, is another Big Thunder all its own. The Kimberly Trip.
Popularity Contest, The Trip's evolutionary evidence, shows this band at its most tuneful and intricate, blurring chops and sorrow, riffs and victory, like paint on the palette. This is a band that refused to get no love and ripped through beyond OUR scenes comprehension, doing thing on their own terms and here is the evidence, shameless and brilliant.
Bractune as I've never heard Bractune. Beating holes in the heads and those machine gun arms taking the snare to Normandie. This is a man bionic. A man on fire. And as most reviewers would refer to interplay betwixt a drummer and bassist, I won't go. Sierra deploying a solid effing knowledge of how a rhythm section should work, barrels up and rules the roost. She plays like hammers on the roof of a mobile home as if to say "Get up and get alive. This world, is ending soon"
Misha, a fan of many things and many things I myself love, sequences as if nothing existed prior to now. Original, hearing the chords and putting what is perfectly best. I swear, these keyboard burst arrive like a bus on time and not just any bus, one that's painted in paint you can hear. Colors from any synthetic decade. Colors that bend.
Kimberlina, she is genuine and real and to see her melts the heart, the chambers of which have felt the same loss and abandon but, anybody can choose to give up, it's here you discover a way out through music, shedding old skin and reappearing more beautiful than ever. The voice curls around the feeling like a hair around a brush.
Jeffry-Wynne? Here's a man who refused to be ignored. He is the weird kite flying high above all of us and his belief in himself and his crew is what keeps him up there. He is the model that all of us should take into account and consider when pondering our lot in this artistic world. This record is a mountain and a vision and his playing on it can tell you that every inch of his heart was put forward because he didn't care, he was making what he sees as beauty. He knew for a fact that what he had deserved a place in this world and who is anybody to say that it doesn't. And my gawd, those guitars see to have come from another place in their perfection.
I put before you a band that went behind the back of a fickle and treacherous music scene and came out on the other side winners. They paid their dues around here only to find they had to pay more until they decided to make their own little club. This determination, and his record, is a testament to the idea that the artistic mind can achieve greatness beyond its own imagination. Just like the land where Big Thunder lives.
Popularity Contest, The Trip's evolutionary evidence, shows this band at its most tuneful and intricate, blurring chops and sorrow, riffs and victory, like paint on the palette. This is a band that refused to get no love and ripped through beyond OUR scenes comprehension, doing thing on their own terms and here is the evidence, shameless and brilliant.
Bractune as I've never heard Bractune. Beating holes in the heads and those machine gun arms taking the snare to Normandie. This is a man bionic. A man on fire. And as most reviewers would refer to interplay betwixt a drummer and bassist, I won't go. Sierra deploying a solid effing knowledge of how a rhythm section should work, barrels up and rules the roost. She plays like hammers on the roof of a mobile home as if to say "Get up and get alive. This world, is ending soon"
Misha, a fan of many things and many things I myself love, sequences as if nothing existed prior to now. Original, hearing the chords and putting what is perfectly best. I swear, these keyboard burst arrive like a bus on time and not just any bus, one that's painted in paint you can hear. Colors from any synthetic decade. Colors that bend.
Kimberlina, she is genuine and real and to see her melts the heart, the chambers of which have felt the same loss and abandon but, anybody can choose to give up, it's here you discover a way out through music, shedding old skin and reappearing more beautiful than ever. The voice curls around the feeling like a hair around a brush.
Jeffry-Wynne? Here's a man who refused to be ignored. He is the weird kite flying high above all of us and his belief in himself and his crew is what keeps him up there. He is the model that all of us should take into account and consider when pondering our lot in this artistic world. This record is a mountain and a vision and his playing on it can tell you that every inch of his heart was put forward because he didn't care, he was making what he sees as beauty. He knew for a fact that what he had deserved a place in this world and who is anybody to say that it doesn't. And my gawd, those guitars see to have come from another place in their perfection.
I put before you a band that went behind the back of a fickle and treacherous music scene and came out on the other side winners. They paid their dues around here only to find they had to pay more until they decided to make their own little club. This determination, and his record, is a testament to the idea that the artistic mind can achieve greatness beyond its own imagination. Just like the land where Big Thunder lives.