Quief Quota

What happens when a clean shaven sextet of small-town noise stoners loses their L.A. cult leader to a short maternity leave? Where other boy bands might crumble and just get the vasectomy, the remaining five corndogs and horndogs of Skarekrau Radio got frank with the skanks and stuck to butt-pokin' and two hours of internet porn a night.
Fort Swansea, Illinois – a no-man's land of vegetable gardens with a couple of nervous milk goats. In a kitchen over run with dildos, soft porn heirlooms and stick-figure cocks, Quief Quota fueled their brothership with competitive cook-off feasts and then shook the walls with screamed jokes about poopie and boobs. A bottomless bout of bong-ripping and lo, the music slid right out and keeps sliding.
The industry doesn't grow bands like this. These wasted aging teen wolves ferment their songs, mutating in the bubbling sewer gas of their basement practice space. Tragic secrets find earnest and true tunes – catching VD at the Grand Ol' Opry from mobile home whores – farting in the swimming hole during ,water ballet – sending a Good Ol' Boy to the emergency room – well, these small town faggots learned to fight for their no-wave. They're not confused about what side of the Mississippi they're on.
Quief Quota is the soundtrack of today's honky tonk manhood. Their every song touches a hard sentiment like a boner felt for the first time. It is East St. Louis' genuine sound of natural men not trying. Their unpretentious, pristine sludge steamrolls along, trailed by a wake of superfans. I've seen girls dry their tears on the wiggling ditties and swinging rhythms and sing-alongs. They swap instruments between every song of their non-stop, ball-busting break down of humble guitar heroics, slurred seductions and off the cuff stuff.
These whistling perverts are revved up to unload their GMC covered-wagon's worth of gear and charm the pants off audiences in America near you.