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“Dead Beat Poetry, all over their motherfucking self titled album, scream loud ass saddle bagged motorcycle and funky ass 'store a beer under my chin' beard. It's as free as mowing the lawn in only your jorts.”
“ Their set certainly reminded one of the beat poets from the mid to late 50’s who congregated in San Francisco; it was heart-felt, uninhibited, and most importantly, it was rebellious by nature. Beat poets Ginsberg and Kerouac would have been proud Friday night, for Dead Beat Poetry successfully pushed the boundaries of conformity at every transition, living up to their namesake.”
