PureVolume

An uneducated one would assume that growing up in Pennsylvanian middle class suburbia is easy. Theyd be correct. This evident truth reared its moderately good-looking head early in the summer of 2004, in a bedroom chockfull of sports paraphernalia and poorly placed Foosball tables. Not to be outdone by the sub-par Feng Shui, a gang of hardly unruly teens decided to create a mess of their own. So much so that their naming of the band became merely another run of the mill Nostradamus prediction. Your Everyday Tragedy began as all other pseudo-oppressed Caucasian teenage disasters. The only thing more bitter than the irony must have been the tiny butterscotch candies the boys so often fell prisoner to. However, in the darkest depths of the uncharted seas of writers block and sexual frustration sat a new beginning. A beginning so new that anyone who knew about its newness was merely a newt, and knew no better than what any normal newt could know. The horizon held a search so delicious that the tiny aforementioned butterscotch bonbons became but a distant reminder of what once was that would never be again. No longer would the boys go hungry and question the muscle mass to body fat ratios inherent in their conversations of Baconators and daily intakes. No longer would each day be an unforgiving and unwavering tragedy. No longer would Your Every Day Tragedy be your every day tragedy. Instead, it turned into a search party. First Dan Sekelik. Then Vince Battistone. And right on down the line the party engulfed Kevin Hart and Justin DeFario in one foul swoop. The bonbons became salsa bowls. The terrible riffs became more terrible. But awesome terrible. Like Ivan the Terrible. These riffs killed the innocent and any soul that questioned why was subsequently shot on site by a bazooka bass guitar. Rampant drum beats called forth a dance, at first mirroring that of the safety dance, but less fruity and with more robust leg movements - something youd see John Travolta do and never bat an eyelash, unless you were blushing at his gyrating pelvis. The calls of the wild echoed through the basements of Sekeliks and Harts alike, eventually giving ground to a home inhabited by a man who would risk life, limb, and tongue to prove to the world he was man enough to eat a tortilla chip flavored with the ball sweat of Satan himself. No sooner than Braveheart DeFario declared Mom! Get me some chocolate milk! was the delicious officially on our radar. The shape was ambiguous, the destination obvious, but the clouds ominous. With the help of a St. Paulys Girl, the boisterous boys took to the streets to set fire to the night with a torch of ambition. A torch resembling that of Sacagawea, or anyone else who had a cool name and became an oppressor of oppressors. Before the eyes of Steve Moakler, sex God, the search became a reality. With instruments in hand, all the while not really giving a shit whether or not Natalie Babbit knew her book title was being stolen, The Search For Delicious began a quest. A neverending quest that has to this day not ended. Because its neverending. So it probably wont be over for a while. At least not until it ends, like later on down the road. But for now they are churning out demo after unheard demo which may or may not ever be introduced to the public. But its worth the wait. Why cross no mans land in search of something that may not be as delicious as the minds eye foretells? Stay in the bunker, where the delicious is not in sight, but definitely in mind. In fact, fund that bunker and adopt it as your own. Sooner or later youll fund our band and adopt it as your own, too. And the Bunker Fund EP will be dancing circles around your CD player. So much so that youll wonder out loud, probably at the expense of your sleeping parents, what exactly is this delicious? And why are my pants off? Because youre excited. For an album. Due out whenever. So mark your calendars forthe future. And dont miss out.