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Four old pals; and we mean “old” in its every meaning, not only the “been acquainted for a long time” iteration, but also the “finely aged” sense as well; were called forth together in the name of rocks glory, to once again march against the subpar sounds of the norm, and crusade for the cause of quality rock’n’roll. So they rolled up their sleeves, sucked in their soft bellies, blew the dust off of their weapons of choice and marched into a practice room to hone the dulled chops they once wielded with unbridled ferocity, in an attempt to convince themselves, and the world, they still had the guts and the glory of their sonic youth. Once together they realized their craft was somewhat akin to doodling the old Van Halen logo on a school notebook…a skill unforgotten.
The old pals in question are as follows. Todd Ethridge, a local fart joke phenom, could not only tickle your belly pink with potty humor, but play a mean axe as well. He had the voice of an angel, until the angel in question accused him of misuse and took it back. Now he just sounds like Todd, but that’s okay because we all need to be proud of who we are, right? Chuck Getsi, once “the creepy cable guy you reluctantly allowed in your home”, can abuse a bass like Arthur abused alcohol…frequently with a professional connoisseurs approach. Manning Jenkins, the oft misunderstood and maligned throwback to a time when men were men and rock meant “a naturally formed aggregate of mineral matter”, plays the guitar as if he is making soft sweet love to a beautiful woman…meaning…wailing like a banshee and thrashing like a bandicoot. Last, but certainly not least in our colorful collection of curmudgeonly comrades, we have the multitalented Joel Stooksbury. Not only can he juggle a pineapple, a wombat and a double-barreled shotgun, but he can also play the drums and chew gum simultaneously, without even messing up the verse beat in Kiss’ phenomenally intricate Lick It Up.
Most bands find naming themselves is the all important act that will immediately define listeners with their sound. Being men usually constitutes a posturing of manliness and foreboding. Our crew here eschewed any of that stereotype for what they all bond on in the first place, which is a sense of hilarity in life. Finkelsteen is “that kid” you grew up with that thought he could get away with everything until his dad sent him off to military school for a surefire reformation, only to have him return far wiser in his acts of mischievousness. Here you will find no band promo shots of black shirts, brick walls, scowls and puffed up chests. You are far more likely to find shit-eaten grins on coffee-jacked middle-agers desperately clinging to their long lost youth. Kind of sad in a way, but relentlessly endearing as well.
Finkelsteen is not trying to musically reinvent the wheel. They are trying to musically reverse engineer the cosmonuclearastrocollison in retrograde. Are they modern rock with a 70’s ethos? Or are they 70’s rock with a modern edge? Only you as the listener can computate the outcome of that hypothesis, and you are implored to do so. The fate of tiny fluffy adorable kittens hang in the balance…over a giant vat of shark infested acid-lava (yes…the sharks are indeed immune to the acid-lava…don’t ask).