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Cricket Culture Info:
To Whom It May Concern (and it better concern you);
If I was to tell you what Cricket Culture is…I could tell you that they’re the next saviors of rock n roll—as if it needed saving. I could tell you that they inject the mainstream with an intoxicating buzz that induces panty-throwing mania in critics and teenyboppers alike. I could also tell you that they know the secret handshake that only the likes of Bono, Plant and Bowie know. But that would just be hype… Who needs that shit? We’ll let somebody else spin that tale…
Brought together in the buried city of Sacramento, the experiment known as Cricket Culture was conceived. Originally heralding from the swamps of the south, brothers Robley and Erik lay down the voice and muscle of the sound, while Zak Bornt infects everything with his epileptic beats and hysteria. Justin Rasco channels otherworldly, brooding, sometimes grating guitar textures that could only come from a dosed-out minister’s son. The camaraderie of Cricket Culture born over cracked bottles, burnt flowers and torn blotter let one hell of a genie escape from the proverbial lamp. At times embodying the spastic energy of the Pixies, while at other times invoking the lush electronic texturings of Spiritualized, Cricket Culture has been described as “Beatlevana.” A fusion of Modern Lovers with Paul McCartney at the helm, Cricket Culture pulses with an immediacy that yearns to be felt and can’t be ignored.
So, if you were to ask me what Cricket Culture is I would tell ya, Cricket Culture is a myth that writes itself, a tale that keeps growing (cause we plant those magic beans); it’s an idea devoid of fact, freeform lines that can’t draw a box, not static but ecstatic, not mass-produced, but produced for the masses; it’s makin’ love in the morning, fucking when you're drunk, it’s a heated conversation, an argument in bloom; it’s a war of the worlds, it’s peace on earth, a madness which begat genius, it’s one hand clapping, two bodies slapping, sporadic, erratic; it’s the growth of your hair and nails, and the decay of your soul and home; it’s sweet sunshine and lemonade, buried in the earth, it’s alight and scratching at the film of the stratosphere, your ashes on the hearth; it burns your skin, soothes your inner id, a precise delirium, the universe screaming out!
Cricket Culture is the experience of me—and you… So turn it up, bitches!
Sincerely,
le Cricket
p.s. chirp, chirp
If I was to tell you what Cricket Culture is…I could tell you that they’re the next saviors of rock n roll—as if it needed saving. I could tell you that they inject the mainstream with an intoxicating buzz that induces panty-throwing mania in critics and teenyboppers alike. I could also tell you that they know the secret handshake that only the likes of Bono, Plant and Bowie know. But that would just be hype… Who needs that shit? We’ll let somebody else spin that tale…
Brought together in the buried city of Sacramento, the experiment known as Cricket Culture was conceived. Originally heralding from the swamps of the south, brothers Robley and Erik lay down the voice and muscle of the sound, while Zak Bornt infects everything with his epileptic beats and hysteria. Justin Rasco channels otherworldly, brooding, sometimes grating guitar textures that could only come from a dosed-out minister’s son. The camaraderie of Cricket Culture born over cracked bottles, burnt flowers and torn blotter let one hell of a genie escape from the proverbial lamp. At times embodying the spastic energy of the Pixies, while at other times invoking the lush electronic texturings of Spiritualized, Cricket Culture has been described as “Beatlevana.” A fusion of Modern Lovers with Paul McCartney at the helm, Cricket Culture pulses with an immediacy that yearns to be felt and can’t be ignored.
So, if you were to ask me what Cricket Culture is I would tell ya, Cricket Culture is a myth that writes itself, a tale that keeps growing (cause we plant those magic beans); it’s an idea devoid of fact, freeform lines that can’t draw a box, not static but ecstatic, not mass-produced, but produced for the masses; it’s makin’ love in the morning, fucking when you're drunk, it’s a heated conversation, an argument in bloom; it’s a war of the worlds, it’s peace on earth, a madness which begat genius, it’s one hand clapping, two bodies slapping, sporadic, erratic; it’s the growth of your hair and nails, and the decay of your soul and home; it’s sweet sunshine and lemonade, buried in the earth, it’s alight and scratching at the film of the stratosphere, your ashes on the hearth; it burns your skin, soothes your inner id, a precise delirium, the universe screaming out!
Cricket Culture is the experience of me—and you… So turn it up, bitches!
Sincerely,
le Cricket
p.s. chirp, chirp