We've been called talentless hacks with no lasting merit, not deserving of a second listen. And we've been called the Jesuses of Garage Rock and Roll. We've been labeled as miscreants, brats, pug fuglies, no counts, baby gorillas, lipless chicken-sh*ts, no goodniks, losers, mama's boys, teachers' pets, as*-lickers, bumble-bonnets, low-down-good-for-nothing-tryin'-to-act-all-tough-and-shit-b aby-shakers, and jerks. We've also been labeled as lower gods and minor prophets in the worship of the all-powerful powerchords. But we prefer to think of ourselves as four dudes who unselfishly put the good of the rocknroll nation above our self-interests. No, you won't see us flashing bling at the t*tty-bar on a Friday Night. You won't see us cruising in p*mped out humvees down on Patton Ave on a Saturday Night either. If you see us p*mping at all, it'll probably be in a 1987 Dodge Spirit, baby blue, with enough trash in the back seat to lose an entire bag of we*d in. So next time you're straining your neck tryin' to catch a glimpse of us through the impenetrable grime that coats all our windows, remember: It's all for you, baby.
