(SOMETHING ABOUT A VAN AND METHAMPHETAMINE) Spawned in the ashes of the bomb crater left over from the paragons of Rivercide Rock & Roll abuse and excess, Conditionz frontman Bob Nye had to find something musical to keep the 800 pound Gorilla in his mind occupied and hence stop him from doing many dark and rude things of a very Italian nature. The BBQ Kings were the product of this primal need to keep the madness at bay following the Conditionz 1993 drug and alcohol implosion surrounding a tweeker freakout and a failed tour due to a van lying in many pieces on a front lawn. Thirteen years of chasing the brass ring called the music business came to a pus filled head and Bob put a bullet to it in 1993. Hence the OG punk conundrum called the Conditionz was laid to rest and the BBQ Kings would pull itself up out of the evolutionary primordial ooze like any good reptile should. (EVERYONE COULD USE MORE DICK) Music, like HIV and Hep C, is a blood born pathogen that feeds off of a person until they find themselves wasted, old and on death’s doorstep, but it’s a mostly good kind of pain that kills only the lesser man. Like any good misanthrope, misery desires company and Bob needed the most morose, fat bastard he could find. His first drummer, while most assuredly on the glass half empty/someone please shoot me in the head team, just wasn’t giving the whole “Am I dead yet? Then let’s keep trying†plan of action his whole heart. Half naked and passed out in a puddle of his own filth on a mutual friend’s front lawn, Bob sighted a man that looked like he understood that God hates us all with every nanogram of breath in the dark void of his being, but could he play drums. Turns out, Uncle Dick somewhere along the John Candyland road of strip clubs, liquor stores, drug dealers and all you can eat buffets had picked up the art of beating things in some semblance of rhythm and meter. (PRACTICE, WHAT'S THAT?) “I got a gig next week, you want to play it?†This was the phrase that lead to Bob and Dick sitting down in a living room with an acoustic guitar and drum sticks on a phone book. A couple of hours and twelve packs later, the foundation was set for the divine two piece disaster called the BBQ Kings. But what would it sound like with real instruments? Only the gig would answer the question and provide the only practice that this band has ever done over the past 12 years. Practice is for pussies. (12 YEARS OLD) For sexual companionship, 12 years old leads down a slippery path into a homemade prison shiv, but for Scotch, whisky and bands, 12 years is just where things get real smooth. How long more the BBQ Kings will last is all in the hands of medical science, but for now you can enjoy the tremulous sounds of a trailer park in the path of a F5 tornado and whooping it up even as the darkness bears down upon the defiant and carefree revelers.
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