np: butch walker & the let's go-out-tonites

Who the fuck is Maserati?

Maserati is a son of a bitch hell bent on dismembering every last vestige of the so-called indie rock establishment before it can drive the last nail in its messenger-bag-wearing coffin.

What the fuck am I talking about?

This is not about me or your knowing about that of which I speak. No, fair warriors, this is about the now sound of ass kicking southern rock - a dynamic post-psychedelic orgy of hooks molesting the tired cliche of math-prog. This is Pink Floyd for hipsters. This is stoner rock for the working man. This is an ill-conceived bio for a band beyond the comprehension of your puny earth minds and you like it.

And while we are at it, fuck vocals - Maserati doesn't have time for all that mess. Maserati is rocking a tight schedule and they refuse to be bothered by the conventions of modern rock-and-roll talking points like words... and front persons.

Sure, I could tell you that in the year 2000 Coley Dennis, Matthew Cherry, Steven Scarborough and Phillip Horan met in a bedroom in Athens, Georgia to kill time kicking out the sans-vox sound, then I could go on to discuss their time spent on the now-defunct Kindercore label. I could potentially continue that trek down memory lane and apprise you of the group's turn towards psychedelic im-prog-visation when the 21st Century's answer to John Bonham, Gerhardt Fuchs replaced Horan on the skins. But seriously, what the fuck am I, Wikipedia?

This isn't about facts, this is about feelings, rock hard feelings and Maserati is about nothing if not feeling... you... all night long.

For real though, at the end of the day, Maserati is the sum of her parts... her sweet, sweet mop-topped parts - a mustachioed Brooklyn scene king, a big city architect, a hard drinking college town booking agent and a wide-eyed idealist from South Carolina. She is a fair-haired magical musical hinterland where the quiet storm goes mano e mano with the thunderous beat of 10,000 Orcs hellbent for leather; a post-disco drone machine bristling with the buzz-saw sound of 1,000 angry square waves nestled on a California king size bed of shoegaze swirl. Seriously, get your shit together and catch the live show, write the rave review, buy the record and live the magic.

All night long.