The Nots

Stepping down from a whiskey and pot fueled binge, where does salvation lay in music these days? How does one find the soundtrack from the oh so gnarly comedown where experience ends in a cesspool of bad watered down sonic sounds? Let me tell you right now, all of you sad bastards. Joe Strummer and Joey Ramone have passed away. Our salvation is bleak folks. However, listen really closely, there is a light at the end of the tunnel.
The Nots have the spark. No fucking kidding. This five piece punk rock outift from Southern California is like the alcohol in moonshine, the cool bloke on the telephone talking you down from a bad LSD trip. They have been the new revelation coming from the abyss for the last year. Kneel down and pray, all of you top 40 worshipping sheep. Let them give you a new religion.
In our days of Britney Spears kissing Madonna complete and utter bullshit, there are folks out there who still know how to shake our core to their very fucking foundations. This is the Nots experience. It’s not deep, it’s not intellectual, it really doesn’t have to be. It’s nothing more than pure soul satisfying sounds filling the void from the absence of the Stooges, the New York Dolls, and Stiv Bators.
Don’t talk, don’t even discuss, just fucking listen. That’s all you need to do. And before you know it, as soon as you clean the decades of wax filling you ears, you’ll see what I’m talking about. You’ll have no choice but to go to the shows. And why don’t you have a choice? Because I’m telling you. I know where you live and you better be scared.
And now I return to my drug fueled haze until the rest of you sheep get the fucking point. My faith in humanity remains scarred after I found out just how many albums Christina Aguilara can sell. The Nots are one glimmer of rock hope folks. And until you discover that fact, I want absolutely nothing to do with you. Suck a tailpipe you fuckers.