Regardless of which, these guys brought something to our little scene that bordered on the weird and we were so thankful for it. Before skinny jeans and plaid hoodies, before our local hipster glitterati found its inherent genre-blending, Pool Party concocted a seamless transition between punk rock pop, electro, techno, Atari 2600 fuck-ups, ebola and non-cream-treatable STD's.
Was it good? You fucking bet.
And here they are. Pool Party is back from the death that 17-year locusts (cicadas) only know: They're back at a time when they are needed. Dick Dumb, Creep Guirdo and Hand Gloveless (all Christian names I'm told) bring the raucous CIA spy thriller to an arena of Tea Parties, Obama-birth-questioners and Afghan/Iraqi involvements with spitz and keyboard glories.
Secret agents sometimes happen to be grad students with death ray guns on "corrections." Or something like that. I don't make this up. I only report and collect lowly checks. Wear nail polish in college and shut the fuck up.
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