THE PEOPLE'S HISTORY OF BRAND NEW, 1999-PRESENT [abridged]
Band forms.
Band plays numerous local shows, gaining a local popularity supportive enough to get band signed to modestly sized indie most known for Hot Rod Circuit.
Band records debut album and releases it to little fanfare [except from yours truly, who made their "hit single" my MP3 of the week way back in November of 2001].
Band tours their asses off, knowing that they have the eye of the proverbial tiger.
Band catches on with radio, MTV, frat boys and fat chicks nationwide.
Band blows the fuck up.
Band tours their asses off yet again, while watching their friends' bands blow the fuck up even bigger.
Label signs clone of band with the expectation that band will sign to a bigger indie/major label for follow-up album.
Collective "holy shit" is uttered when band plans to release second album on same label.
Band smokes a shitload of pot.
Band listens to a fuckload of Bright Eyes.
Band's singer learns how to sing better.
Band learns how to play better.
Band's lyricist studies up on the collected writings of Tim Kasher and Conor Oberst, developing some of the most intensely personal lyrics to ever be put to paper in the past 5 years.
Band finally records second album.
Band accidentally covers "Yellow" by Coldplay [see "The Boy Who Blocked His Own Shot"].
Band writes the best song the aforementioned Mr. Oberst has never written [see "I Will Play My Game Beneath The Spin Light."]
Band writes seven-minute balls out rock song with sick breakdowns [see "Good To Know That If I Ever Need Attention All I Have To Do Is Die."]
Album gets bootlegged all over the internet weeks and weeks before it's release, causing morons everywhere to cream themselves.
Band smokes more pot.
Writer is not phased by hype.
Writer finally gets a copy of the album.
Writer is kept in awe for 48 minutes and 43 seconds, as his ears discover a band fed up with it's already much-copied sound branching out into virtually uncharted territory.
Writer prays that the album will prove to band's detractors that they really *are* something special, while at the same time making frat guys and fat chicks stop listening to them.
Writer can keep praying, right?
Band smokes more pot.
Writer wishes he would have written this album, as there is more talent contained here than he'll ever be a part of in his life.
Writer urges reader to buy album for the good of their musical tastes.
Reader, if they have even made it this far, will scoff.
Reader, having not made it this far, will have already left a derogatory comment pertaining to writer's sexuality/physical appearance/personality/taste in music/mother's maiden name.
Reader will miss out on what is one of the best albums of 2003, hands down, if they're not smart.
Writer, in a final, futile attempt to be clever, says "Deja Entendu? Hardly."
AUDIO
The Quiet Things That No One Ever Knows
I Will Play My Game Beneath The Spin Light
Guernica