THE HEARTACHES

Molded from the neglected scraps of quintessential punk purity. Compressed by greasy, nail bitten hands scarred and bloodied from the rock and roll crusades. Forged in a misguided abuse of high voltage electricity and wound steel. These are the ways of the Heartaches, the most exciting punk combo of today.



Their attack is a combo-nation of the crudeties from a vicious punk past where amps buzz with unforgiving noise, and aorta-wrenching pop is mangled unapologetically. A fierce Cro-Magnon ballet on a tightrope between severely inhibited chord thuggery and passionately tuneful rock and roll bliss. The Heartaches sized themselves in the dried cement handprints left by the Real Kids, the Saints, the Kinks, Elvis and a slew of classic '70s punk, and came away charged where their contemporaries can only face inadequacy.



But beware.



To assume that this heartbeat only pumps in dreams of sepia disillusionment would be your nightmare. The Heartaches bleed today and inflict lovingly harm now to all that bask in the glory of the life affirming potential of reckless art -- art that is fueled by cheap, dirty gas which produces a wake of nasty, black smoke and makes your engine convulse.



It is my privilege to introduce you to 2005's gold medal winners of the Cheeseburger Punk Awards, the real Heartaches. 1-2-3-4!



-Swami John



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