Charlie Baudelaire & the 666-Shooters

It’s difficult to define the line between gritty-ass blues, stupid-ass punk, and shimmery-ass pop, but it’s not often a band tries to tightrope their way through that line. As old and grizzled as their members are, I suppose we can’t be too shocked when these type of fellows try. And try they do.

Way back in the 90s, back when panties were moistened by merely the thought of Bel Biv DeVoe, there was an on-the-spectrum kid sitting in his basement, constructing what he thought were songs. He had a bit of a gift, a gift which drink and drugs would eventually wrest from his tiny, girlish little hands. But he tested out of high school, and then repeatedly went back to that same high school–to sell his tapes and magazines, and to date girls. “Ha ha! They’ll never get ME!” he said to himself.

Meanwhile, there was a tiny recording studio in this kid’s basement. He engineered and/or produced a ton of lo-fi stuff, all from bands who paid him either nothing, or, at most (if they weren’t close friends) $5 per hour. Which, back then, was a bit higher than minimum wage. He learned. Like a T-1000 unit, humanity taught him how to do shit.

As many people predicted, this sorry-ass little lad went off the deep end. And for about fifteen years, he kinda fell off the map.

But, as the Walrus said to the Carpenter, uh, to talk of many things, “of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings!” So yeah, grumpy as this dude now gets, having to wake before noon, he’s still writing songs, still subverting the ‘stablishment, still humpin the guv’ment.

But now he lives in a quiet part of Boise, and his bloodvessels are not nearly as swole. Nor are they Woke. So he sits in his basement, tuning antique guitars down to drop-D, and learning ignorant-ass Robert Johnson stuff. And writing new shit for the next album. It will absolutely blow your fucking mind.