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S/T album available on CD Baby and iTunes:
CD Baby
iTunes
"Hunger Anthem: the whole reason that DIY still matters."
- RetroLowFi
"The band clamber through the bluster and slice to the heart of the song, emerging bloody, triumphant and richer. Quick, sudden, painless – stripped down and lean, Hunger Anthem are a short, sharp reminder of when rock was allowed to be solely about the song, the buzz, the feel"
- ANBAD (UK)
"The language of this album recognizes the necessity of absurd and oxymoronic speech to power. This album is a story worth telling not the least for its open-hearted malcontented charm. The intended audience are all those of us banished unto the earth. Feels like that to me."
- Billy's Bunker/Billy Sheppard
"So it's a rare pleasure to encounter an indie artist who can totally knock me out. The most amazing aspect is the songwriting. Tunes after tunes of melodic little gems, each of them perfectly arranged and executed so they're neither too short nor too long. The quality is so consistent, and at such a high level. "
- Aries9/Ari Koinuma
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Much volume, much love, to the bone. Buffalo, NY.
Tracing the roots of Hunger Anthem, one arrives on a doorstep in Buffalo, NY of a somewhat disheveled but personable and curious presence of a guy named Brendan. A black drum set and several scattered guitars occupy the living space, as well as a couple of microphones and a healthy pile of torn and well-written upon pieces of notebook paper that sit on a table next to a probing pair of felines and a humming Tascam 4-track with a pair of blown out headphones connected to it. There is much work to be done, and even more to obsess about.
Without hesitation, a late morning beer is cracked amidst the promise of a definite balance to come that is constantly being challenged by the unending changes of the moment. Several voices seep through the open windows from the busy and hurried sidewalk in front of the house. Faces grin, places are confused, conversations glow on and disappear in seconds.
A tuneful chord is hurled into the racket, and by sundown, it is funneled back through endless hours of youthful tennis racket-strumming to early Kiss and late Beatles records, and the realization that in the end, strawberry fields are also hotter than hell, and that the bedroom door is the perpetual gateway to a particularly amazing place, if only you can find it.
