THE PRESS RELEASE
“Chief Tail coagulated in the winter of early 2019 with one mission- putting a sense of danger and the unknown back into underground rock’n’roll for your gruesome enjoyment! Will they, CAN they possibly succeed?? The Chief rose his Tail phoenix-like from the ashes of the underground RVA noise/chaos/violence slingers known as PCP Roadblock (1995-2005). The members hitchhiked, train-hopped, and stowed-away from Virginia to settle in the sewer of San Francisco. Already a nationwide phenomena, see? Now just imagine if you went to see Pissed Jeans play with Tongue Party, but you were so loaded that you skated into the pit and threw up on the prettiest girl (OR GUY) before stealing the mic along with the hearts and minds and wallets of the crowd?? WHAT IF?!? After a few beers and a few songs were complete, these guys somehow made it on their own up to Chicago and recorded to 2 inch tape at Electrical Audio Studios with Mister Steve Albini, though he might deny it.”
MY TWO CENTS
I can hear all the armchair quarterhacks and weekend warriors now: ‘Ya call that muzik? Hell, me and my buddies could do that in the garage with a coupla guitars and a cooler fulla beer.’ And you know what? You’re probably right, Dwight. After all, it’s not like the Virigina-farmed, San Francisco-quartered pugs of Chief Tail are brandishing some musical monkey paw that imbues them with their own twisted blend of genius. They’re just working the same side of the zeitgeist as countless other young, dumb and fullacum punk twerps. Let me spell it out for you: They don’t like you or your face. They do like beer, easy money and legs. They know a handful of power chords and a coupla drumbeats, they have amps and drums powerful enough to get the job done, and they wanna make enough noise to drown out all the stupids. Ain’t nothing wrong with that. In fact, it gets the Tinnitist seal of approval. So yeah, to get back to where we started: You could totally do this. But here’s the rub, rubber ducky: You didn’t. You ain’t. And you probably ain’t gonna. So howzabout you shut yer yap trap, crank up the stereo until the speakers start blowing smoke rings, and snag me another brewski or twoski from the Coleman while you’re over there, wouldja?
