Their bassist was singing through some kind of echo box. Some songs reminded me of rockabilly. I didn’t know what that girl meant when she called them pop.
He wasn’t singing so much as whining in a nasal voice, and having an epileptic fit. “Kind of like Emo Phillips on crack, don’t you think?” the bartender said.
So you wake up one beautiful sunny morning and say to yourself “Well, I didn’t really have any plans today, so why not eat those last two hits of acid.”