The King Is Dead
The penultimate dream that dances between the seven synapses still firing within the brain of a patchouli smelling hippie is the desire to make a Grateful Dead cover band. So why should you give a shit about us?
First off, we aren’t just another Grateful Dead cover band. We don’t have dreads. We don’t tour with Phish in our parent’s 4 Runner or buy chocolate veggie moonrocks with our trust fund…anymore!
What we do have is something the world has never heard before. You are going to hear the mournful wail of Jerry’s guitar accompanied by the rockabilly overtures of Elvis. That’s right. Fucking Elvis! And not that strutting around pretty boy Elvis either. I mean full-throttle, I just swallowed enough speed to give a heart attack to a hippo and washed it down with a fifth of jack because I know I don’t have much longer on this earth but I’m going to shred my vocal chords one last time….Elvis!
This is “The King is Dead”. Nowhere else in the universe can you find the drug fueled antics of Elvis mixed with the drug fueled music of the Grateful Dead. Trust us when we say that we perfectly blend the best of the acid rock of the late 60s and 70s to the rockabilly chops of the late 50s. You get the psychedelic splendor of Dark Star with the dueling lead guitars of
Brandon Ayers and Kurt Schuelke. One will dance with the lead before deftly turning it over to the other. Pete Gillis will thunder in on his Modulus bass and create a “funk-abilly” backdrop to each tune, kind of like the sound of Thor’s hammer blowing up an alien planet. Travis Davis combines the innovation and clockwork polyrhythm of Kreutzman like a badass, rage fueled baboon on amphetamines. And Paul Evans, a man who dresses like Fergie, looks like Jesus, and plays like Satan having a bad trip on acid will color this tapestry of sound with his keys.
Lest we forget the man, the myth, the legend, our own Elvis....Aaron “Tennessee Red” Patrick. His mother was a Ukrainian circus midget, his dad, a Tennessee meth pusher, and he grew up tapping out the beat to All Shook Up on empty casks of moonshine in a backwoods outhouse in West Virginia. That was the highlight of his childhood. But just wait till you hear him croon.