Inspired by 80s horror films and honest to goodness ragtime; Armed with laser harps, electric serpents and cowbells; Born amongst the wreckage of that which was once good, once strong; Frankie Marathon and his mates gave no care to the writing on the wall. To most bearded men it would not be by choice, but there, on the damp earth these savage fellows hold firm. For there is no better cause than making a massive mess of electronic swinging noise. Seriously good crunchy, feel it in your ass nonsense. Why choose crime over Frankie? over a man constructed from a beam of dark opaque photons? Why choose the gourmet stuff when you can have Carl? That same Carl, plucked from his twisted Banyan tree cage during the sweeping storms of yesteryear. It is a show worth believing to be seen. And for crying out loud, there is NOTHING like seeing a grown man play the piano like his life depended on it. Hell.. it does! Or Jonny, master of the low end, low ending it with some fuzz and some ass moving moxie. Then there's the rhythm player. Holee $#!*@.
Don't look now, but you just got your grand tetons kicked in by Frankie Marathon.
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