Can you count on We Are Scientists? To answer that question, look past the many thousands of friends and family members we’ve betrayed and trampled and (in one case) sold to get where we are today. Just look past them. Right past them.
Instead, take a look at this:
– we’ve got some new photos, taken by the inimitable Charlie McIntosh, who – and, oh, we are so ashamed of this – we invited to party with us after our New Year’s Eve show, but then, when he diligently (we suspect) made his way to Chris’s apartment in midtown, we were not there, because we were getting pizza, and we never saw the boy again. We are bad people, and we apologize to Charlie – here, in public – because he is our hero and everything we’d like to be and all of that business about flying with the altitude of an eagle and all that. If it makes you feel any better Charlie, the party was a disaster, with Keith getting pizza sauce all over his brand new jacket and Michael falling into a deep and peaceful sleep right there on the couch, in the midst of it all. We need to get invited to more parties, people, so that we can see how it’s really done. Until then, check out the photo page.
– we’ve got the new video for “Bomb Inside the Bomb” up and running on the Songs page. Go look.
– we’ve got two new songs from our Bitching EP up, also on the Songs page. We haven’t even gotten around to selling this EP – this brilliant, life-changing, famous-making EP – on the site, but still we’ve found the time to offer some of its gems to you, free. Free of charge! Just take them! Our is a thankless life, yes, but it is the life we’ve chosen for ourselves, except for Keith, who was coerced and lied to, and has now invested too much capital in the band to back out.
You’ve been around. You sure have. You know enough to know that sometimes, sometimes life hurts. Bad. In fact, rarely do you sleep through the night, so haunted are you. So HAUNTED are you!! By what? By your failures: your cornucopia of failures. Your encyclopedic, alphabetized list of failures, often mistaken by friends for a very nice dictionary — your ex had it leatherbound. It serves as a coffee-table-fit monument to your dismal rate of success in this life. It serves, too, as a firm portent of the sort of New Year’s Eve you’re likely to have this year. A goddamn miserable one. Can we be honest? A goddamn miserable one.
Here’s the point: we, the affiliated members of we are scientists, New York’s most buttoned-up rock band, used to be the same way. We used to blow New Year’s every time our calendars gave us half a chance. Now? We’re in a rock band that does things like play shows in front of throngs of adulation-frenzied fans on New Year’s Eve. How did we do it? Simple. We did it by going to lots and lots of we are scientist shows.
Here’s a statistic whose meaning is pretty damn unambiguous: we have, all three of us, been present at no less than EVERY SINGLE WE ARE SCIENTISTS SHOW IN THE LAST TWO YEARS. And you can bet your pet bird’s budding brain tumor that we’ll be at
(171 Ludlow b/n Houston & Stanton–Take the F train to 2nd Ave.)
December 31st, 2002
Hey. Let’s wipe the slate clean. Let’s bury that volume of little missteps and federal crimes beneath a landslide of hot pop melodies, cold champagne, lightning-fast fooseball, lingering kisses at midnight… let’s strike a match that you can use to set 2003 ON FIRE. Let’s make 2003 for you Year of the Ferrari, Year of the Beachfront Mansion, Year of the Non-Manipulative-but-Somehow-Still-Sexy Significant Other Who Looks Great In A Swimsuit.
* A couple of notes about this show:
-Luna Lounge is 21 and over.
-Luna Lounge is charging a $10 dollar cover for New Year’s Eve, but if you show up before 9 and say you’re their for the we are scientists, IT’S FREE. FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE [to the melody of the chorus of John Mayer’s folk classic ‘Your Body is a Wonderland’].
Okay, kids. So steps have been taken to clear up this whole problem with our server. The steps, they were brash steps, bold steps, steps involving the sort of bravery and derring-do that one implicitly associates with We Are Scientists, steps that likely involved espionage and explosions and Keith thinking that his sleeve was on fire and shrieking and waving his arm around in the international symbol for fire-extinguishing impotence. But, mainly, the steps involved securing a new server. Which we did. So, there. That’s all been taken care of, with only a scorched sleeve to show for it.
Look, people. We want to update more often. We know you crave the information, we hear your pleas, we see you crouching outside of our windows. But, for multiple reasons, sometimes it seems prudent to hold back. Just to cinch up our belts and play coy for a while. What good does it do us to tell you about the WAS feature film – starring Ben Affleck as Keith, Matt Damon as Chris and Danny DeVito as Michael – that is currently in post-production? What good does it do to get you excited, when we all know that the film will most likely never see release, so shocking and challenging and frankly carnal is much of the content of this very faithful autobiography? It does nobody any good. So, we like to hold off, enjoy our grapeade, and not say a word until the things, the incredibly exciting things that we are always scheming, are 100% going to happen. But let us just prime the pump a little by saying that, yeah, you will see some neat things soon.
Another problem here, though, is that our server is troubled. We’re having problems here, kids, we won’t lie. Yes, we are scientists, but we are also idiots, and, most of the time, we can’t get these computers to do our bidding. Upload the file! Keith screams at his monitor hourly, but his CompuShitty brand computer steadfastly refuses to respond. So, Keith sits around at home, watching the video for Bomb Inside the Bomb over and over, marveling at the sheer achievement in animation that has been made here, laughing with childlike whimsy every time he sees the part with the goose. Oh, the part with the goose is so good. But it looks like you kids while not see frame one of this Oscar-deserving short until Keith figures out the difference between right-clicking and clicking “Ctrl + Alt + Delete” over and over and over, shrieking with fury and frustration until he is tucked into bed and euthanized by his band mates.
Things that are new for us:
– new photos
– new advice
– a new animated video for the Bomb Inside the Bomb. soon. probably.
– a taste of humility, for Keith
– we are working on new shows. do you want us? do you want us like we want you? don’t be coy, now.
– for Michael, a raging case of [edited for content]
Chris came to work today with 30 minutes of sleep under his proverbial belt, and only slightly more than that trapped, like singles in a stripper’s g-string, under his actual belt — for the non-scientists, roughly one hour’s total sleep. That’s because Chris has bad baby karma. When he flies the friendly skies, so do a legion of babies. And these are not the babies from the Snuggles (TM) commercials; these are the ones for whom existence itself is an excruciating injustice, in whom breathing and sitting produce righteous indignity; they’re the babies with the weight of history’s cumulative grief on their narrow shoulders — these are also the babies who suffer from devastating gastric cramps. Using spine-tingling screams, these babies appeal directly to the gods for mitigation of their agony. We’re being sarcastic. Babies are fucking drama queens. If a “diva” ever acted like babies do, she’d be fired immediately. Nobody stands there and takes shit from another person the way we do, all of us, from babies. For even the most cowardly among us there is a line the crossing of which causes us to retaliate. Unless the transgressor is a baby, in which case we stand dumb in the face of a baby’s divine right to create sonic atrocities for no good reason. How long will this go on?
The following website address has not yet been registered:
stopbabykind.com. Someone must get on this. Due to sponsor affiliations (Gerber(TM), Children’s Dimetapp(TM), Sippy Cup(TM)), we can’t be the ones to do it. Fanbase, wake up! There’s a war being fought right under your noses, a war with very high stakes and one that, if the babies win it, will be like The Nam in terms of how many people look back on it with a bitter smile and vacant, unfocused eyes.
Some of you may suppose that this is some kind of dimwitted Swiftian satire. For you we offer the following anecdote, which we will not dress up in metaphor or excess verbage: On Chris’s flight last night, there was this baby trying to scream his own teeth out of his mouth — just roaring — for no reason. And whenever his mom tried to quiet him by whispering reassuringly or cradling him, he would strike her in the face with all his pathetic might. He hit her face again and again, whenever she so much as looked down at him. Do you see now?
We still sense reticence. It’s time for the pictures then. Take a look at this photograph of a common baby. Pay special attention to how fucking evil it obviously is:
We hate to do this, but we’re going to have to show you another one to insure that the point has been made:
That’s one evil-scheming baby. Can any among you maintain doubt after seeing this:
Steel yourselves, friends. Witness the final exhibit. We know this isn’t easy:
Four everyday, run of the mill babies, their malice captured quite objectively by a common 35 millimeter camera. You may continue to deny what’s going on if you wish, but it will now be willful, irresponsible ignorance and not simple naivete that is to blame when the babies one day do their macabre little dance on the original copy of the Constitution, when they thrust humanity into an age so dark that we’ll be forced to refer to the Dark Ages as simply That One Time, for it will no longer seem like a dark time, comparitively.
A final exhortation. Next time you see a baby in person, smack its face. Shake your head dismissively at the resulting shrieks. Let the baby know that its hold on you only exists so long as you let it exist. Then terrify the baby and its kind by slapping it again to emphasize that you have ceased to recognize that hold. Then shave a bald-stripe down the middle of the baby’s head, producing an inverted mohawk of sorts, which will make the baby look like a damned idiot, and he’ll be forced to lay aside his pride. Watch him glower at his diaper’s waistband, silently fuming. Taste the nectar of triumph.
And now some music-related news.
Keith will be, for the next week or so, tagging along on tour with our friends Speechwriters LLC, hitting damn near every musical hotspot between Boston and Washington DC, or, at least, nine of those hot spots. For the most part, Keith is just going along for the ride, helping out the LLC by selling merch and shiz like that, but occasionally, he may or may not serve as opening act, all by his lonesome. If you want to watch Keith sweat and swear and cringe behind an acoustic guitar without the benefit of Chris’s thund’rous bass lines or Michael’s benevolent gaze, you’ll want to stop by and check it out. We cannot promise that Keith will definitely be playing at any of these shows, but the ones with the asterisks feature, like, an 85% chance of seeing it happen. In any case, you should come out and say hello. Keith promises that if he’s not playing that night, he’ll take you aside and sing you whatever it is that you want to hear, or at least stare at you dully and wish you would just go away, you hound.
***12 nov. wentworth institute of technology (~8:30pm) 550 huntington ave, boston, ma
13 nov fisher college (noon) 118 beacon st, boston, ma
14 nov the brown u. underground (TBA) providence, ri
15 nov lemoynapalooza (TBA) syracuse, ny
***16 nov TKE @ RPI (TBA) troy, ny
20 nov cb’s 313 gallery (9pm) nyc
***21 nov staccato bar and lounge (9pm) washington, dc
***22 nov frostburg university (8pm) frostburg, md
Aw, naw, naw! Baby, don’t be so angry about the website having been down for so long. It could not be helped. One thing led to another, and things happened – bad things, things that included, at one point, Keith and Chris attending a musical event sponsored by Teen People magazine, watching slackjawed as Justin Timberlake pretended that he wasn’t the whitest man alive and Avril Lavigne pretended that she wasn’t too short to ride any of the rides at Disneyland other than, like, that Dumbo ride, which, even on that ride she needs to be accompanied by an adult.
Happy Halloween, you bunch of mother-grabbers. You would think that guys like us, guys who trade in songs about fighting monsters and writing Star Trek fan fiction and having big pectorals, that we’d be all about Halloween, right? But no. Not at all. Michael’s going to the Beck/Flaming Lips show, which yeah, you gotta go to the Beck/Flaming Lips show when it comes to town, but unless Beck is dressed up like a space cowboy and the Flaming Lips are pouring fake blood on their heads whilst guys in animal costumes dance in the crowd, then that ain’t no kind of Halloween party. So, come on, Michael. Keith is maybe going to this party thrown by our pals in the Fit, but he has no costume. He was thinking that it would be nice to be a werewolf senator, but he has neither a werewolf costume nor a set of fake senator’s teeth, so he’s fucked. And Chris – there’s no telling what sort of gruesome shit Chris is up to, am I right? We’ll just have to read all about it in tomorrow’s papers.