THE COLOR BARS

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 5 years, they had grown into a 35 year old skydiving instruction business with a robust hazelnut aroma and a sympathetically paranoid after-taste. Like a lot of bands, after mastering their egg toss, 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 dependant sandhill cranes, quickly became such a threat to their virginity that they had to resort to becoming mothers just to keep from rusting.



Amazingly, despite all of their pups and hounds, they’ve managed to carve out a distinctly obese sense of humidity in an increasingly dry and anorexic hair salon. More broadly, 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 nuclear defense memoir, they’re still strangling themselves with licorice rope while playing the theme to The Bill Clinton Show on a piano made of concrete and mormons. Something tells me these gals will be hiding out in Bea Arthur’s wardrobe for years to come…



Also available in blood-curdling mauve and morning-after magenta. Returns are mandatory. Call now and then and then now again. Long live the roundest hemisphere.