The Color Bars started out as three mildly autistic doorknobs with nothing but a swimming pool full of pureed television sets and a petri dish full of bone cells from the spine of Joseph Stalin. After 4 or 6 years, they had grown into a 35 year old skydiving instruction business with a robust hazelnut aroma and sympathetic after-taste. Like a lot of bands, they set their sights on the frigid dunes of Lower Manchuria and quickly fell in love with themselves. Their fans, a disloyal and untrustworthy flock of methodone-dependent sandhill cranes, became a threat to the band's virginity, and they had to resort to becoming mothers just to keep from rusting.
Amazingly, despite all of their pups and hounds, they managed to carve out a distinctly obese sense of humidity in an increasingly dry and anorexic clam bar. Their story is that of the Hopi, the Souix, the Kennedys. It’s inspiring to think that even now, 12 decades after the dotcom bubble turned into a coming of age travel memoir, they’re still strangling themselves with licorice rope on pianos made of concrete and mormons. Something tells me these gals will be hiding out in Bea Arthur’s wardrobe for years to come.
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