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This is the usual spot where somebody from the band writes a third-person narrative highlighting the band's accomplishments and spouting off some quaint bull$&*! story about how everyone came together.
Well, let's keep the third-person perspective, but ditch the propaganda garbage. One day, three semi-functional alcoholics -- Abe, Max, and Brandon -- decided to strum on guitars and yell into a microphone just coherently enough that the neighbors would at least call the cops for a noise complaint and not mistake it for a double homicide, which is probably for the better because they've been known to kill drifters on occasion to bust one, but I digress.
One night, on a hunt for another drifter to feed their erotic bloodlust, they came across Dennis living in a refrigerator box in an alley. In a twisted device in their hobo-related satisfaction, they gave Dennis an ultimatum: play a badass drum line or suffer the consequences. He ended up rocking it; what a serendipitous turn of events.
After numerous unsuccessful searches for a vagrant who could play the bass, the band met Charlie, who got lost in the Strip on his way from Cheerleaders to Pollack’s Cafe. After watching him play some Geezer Butler lines on the air bass, the band was so impressed they said, why not, and gave him a real one -- the results were much less successful. He was cool enough, though, so he's jamming out in the meantime.
Now on the move to offset the costs of their questionable free time activities, you can find The Filthy Low Down playing at local bar mitzvahs, children's parties, retirement homes, and anywhere else they can rock out and drink excessively.
Do you have money, lots of Duquense Pilsner, or a cute female friend, relative, or acquaintance above the age of 21? Get The Filthy Low Down at your next event! The faster they work, the sooner they overcome their insatiable thirst for homeless homicide -- and you never know when it will be somebody you care about on the streets when they're lurking around.