You couldn't tell by looking at them, but their pairing dates back to a steaming rivalry that hasnt been matched since the 69 Boyz attempted to usurp Tag Team's Whoomp! (There it is) with their 'in your face, originality' banger, Whoot (There It Is.) It all started in two sweaty discos on opposite ends of town. Both knew of their presence, both knew of their penchant for the dance, both knew of the sparks that would ignite the sky should they meet face to face. On that fateful night when one brazenly trampled on the others discothèque, those sparks, they did fly.
They immediately approached one another, and with the abrupt halt of a record, the spill of a drink and the roof begging for liquid replenishment to ill refute, the two men with guns for feet, had a showdown that now lives in infamy.
They pounded the wooden planks of the dance floor like dendropheliacs with rhythm. Respecting and revering each others' moves, they pulled out their big guns in a futile attempt to feel the warmth of a victorious strobe light in their face. Kevin pulled out his classic My Name Is Rio Triple Sun Slip as if he was, actually, dancing on the sand, while Geoff countered with his Coo Coo Ca Choo I Am the Walrus Slide, never taking the knives of their eyes off of each other.
They stopped, huffing and panting like off Broadway musical theater students, jazz hands a flutter. Magic happened that night. Pooling their resources, they set out to make music that would combine both their influences and attributes and love of experimentally accessible music into one unstoppable, but remarkably fleet footed, monster, as they knew that they were the only ones that could create the music for this monster to dance to. There was only one problem; picking a name.
It took days. Months. Years. Kevin pushing for Butterscotch Delight, while Geoff, always the thinker, sticking to Eighteen Divided By Two Divided By Three Minus Three Plus Two (E.D.T.D.T.M.T.P.T). There were tears. There were beers. Fortunately those two things never intermingled, to ruin their beverages. It all came to a screech powers halt when Kevin suggested a name with Tony Danza in the title and Geoff spoke the unthinkable;
"Man, Tony Danza sucks."
Just like that it was over. Their two worlds crashed and they never spoke again. Kevin, who, without a mustache, at one time, could give free mustache rides simply with the instruction of an irreverent t-shirt, was actually forced to grow one, along with a beard, as he was now homeless. Only now, his undesirable upkeep left him unable to even give them away, and was forced to modify the t-shirt with magic marker to read Free mustache rides.........for a dollar. Geoff went into freelance photography. He also grew a beard, but only to hibernate himself from the realization of what his new profession was. Taking any job he could get, he found himself taking unfortunate shots of obscenely hairy, oversized men who graced the pages of American Grizzly Magazine. They missed each other dearly, but both were too prideful to speak up.
Until that day. The sparks, they did fly.
Kevin, now with a sizeable weight gain and a beard, sought the opportunity for some fast cash and submitted his application, as the mustache industry was just not lucrative. Unrecognizable, to even their former musical partners, Kevin disrobed and spread his honey pot for the camera. Geoff began snapping, with a confused yet familiar eye. Always the professional, he encouraged his models, and he said,
"My, arent you a dirty bear........."
The familiar warm tone and the knives in his eyes, stabbed Kevin in the heart, forcing him to sit up, look passed the hairy disguise, and wonder with a stutter
"C-c-coo coo ca choo?"
And they never looked back. Clean-shaven and with clean slates, they are now on pace to shatter whatever perceptions you had about long-winded danceable music made by white boys. Get the lead out.
Oh those Dirty Bears.
Whoomp!/Whoot (There it is.)
