Member Since: 5/27/2006
Band Website: www.thebrozone.podomatic.com
Band Members:the brozone is not a band,
however, all bands are part of the brozone so therefore all members of bands are members of the brozone band which is not a band.
Influences: this, that, dog, cat: wiffleball bat.
Sounds Like:Never before have I heard so many different kinds of noise blended together to make something magnificent as I did last night when the infamous Brozone invaded my dome with faux radio waves that were equally as disturbing as they were hypnotic. For weeks I've been told of this "Brozone," for which a group of men in their mid-twenties (and early thirties) gather in Petaluma with headphones, albums, sound effects, and massively bizarre takes on radio talk. I had my expectations, I'll admit, of this very group of people sitting in a circle in a basement somewhere listening to records and having the occasional bizarre conversation between tunes. I wondered if anyone was allowed to talk while the music was playing, if it would get boring after fifteen minutes, and if I would be allowed to say whatever I wanted or if I would be shushed at the mentioning of something that had perhaps already been said. I have never been more wrong about anything in my life."The Brozone" happens because it's tradition. Every Sunday, the mics are prepared, and playlists arranged, the sound effect tools rigged, the CDs placed in the drive for recording, and the ON AIR light switched on around ninePM as the Brozone begins. But despite the incoming and outgoing calls, the constant flow of music and conversation, the ritual of its allotted time every single Sunday night, and the recording of every moment of this two to three hour show (it goes "until the good cartoons come on Adult Swim"), it is not your typical radio show. The Brozone is a product of idealism; a show organized and made for the simple entertainment of only the domes it invades. Those that make it are the only ones that hear it, because the capacity of the Brozone's broadcast is the bathroom of the same household it's being recorded in, which is down the hall and slightly to the right.On top of the fact that it's not broadcasted, it raises the question of exactly how many records one can play on their own radio station, and how many of them can be played at the same time, with sound effects, and samples, and childrens toys hooked up to microphones that explode at random, and scratching, and nearly inappropriate amounts of noise all playing at the same time, underneath and on top of each other. Accompanied by the voices of whoever comes, whoever joins, whoevers dome feels so inclined to participate in the wonder of the Brozone, it goes like a sheet of glass being shattered against your brain repeatedly for about three hours while conversation commences when necessary in a room lit by dim red and bordered by miscellaneous disturbances that its creator saw fit for its walls. It's like a chaos that thrives on being entirely disorganized, obnoxious, spontaneous, and far-fetched, all being sucked into a vacuum strong enough to suck every layer of skin off your body if you stick your fingers in it, and continuing to swirl and make noise as it careens around the bag, banging and smashing against every inner wall like thirty hammers in a dryer. It's like all your enemies lost all their common sense for the course of a few hours while they spread their infectious germs and most obscene, self-obsessed, and downright cruel feelings transformed into genius sentences by means of microphone cables through the walls and into a funnel that's strapped to your ears with duct tape while your hands and ankles are tied with a million knots to every leg of a steel chair. It's like a self-promoting insane asylum broadcasted twenty four hours a day through loudspeaker hooked up in the corner of every padded cell, every mansion's master bedroom, every toddler's toy room, and every office's conference room, screaming only of the things so wonderful about itself, advertising for nothing but its strange ability to invade one's dome and pollute it.One may think that the Brozone is a project of negativity, programmed to destroy every decent thought you ever harbored or even thought of contemplating. It may sound like a creation only those riddled with devilish tendencies could concoct and execute, and something only the clinically insane could truly capture in their mental nets. One may observe the previously stated characteristics of the Brozone with a tainted perspective on what is good and what is bad, what is right and what is wrong, what is real and what is fake, and it will lead them to a place where having their dome infested with these foreign radio waves that sneak-attack the usual and mundane brain waves that occupy it is necessarily a bad thing. But I assure you, my friends, that is not so. The real kicker is that the masters of the Brozone make it so unreal that it's magnificent, so bizarre that it's magnetic, so incredibly fucked up that it's absolutely fucking marvelous. If you can possibly resist your thousand temptations to explode, you'll understand that the Brozone is like the element that never existed in this universe for you to find in the first place. You'll realize that the Brozone is a part of your dome you'd never had occupied by such tenants before, and that despite the occasional ruckus, their late-night activities are refreshing and somewhat interesting to you. You'll see that the Brozone, while awkward, bizarre, and completely surreal, sounds So. Fucking. Good.-writen by r. steeze McDouglepuff http://www.myspace.com/goldengluesticksmcgee
Record Label: the Petaluma Radiophonic Workshop
Type of Label: Major