Why cry out to the damaged landscape any longer? It's populated with the fey and callous, and returns only dull echoes of our honest intent. The psyche turns inward and muddled, and we stumble through the fallen light only to discover that we stumble…But then again, some proto-human impulse lingers in the center of our heads, by the brain stem. It's a slack-jawed, single-willed drive to "rock the shackles from our hackles,” as it were. In this semi-somnolent state, we discern a hint of a reason to wake and stretch, like transcending freaks, to the blossoming, murderous sun.

Yes, friends, it really is Raised by Robots. The ripping Telecaster, manic skins, cross-eyed bass lines and mellifluous pipes dement us to bliss: the psyche is plumped like a feather pillow, and sonic wizard bolts fly unfettered from our collective ass. The smug, horn-rimmed and effete duck and drop to their concave bellies. Raised by Robots, fueled as they are by dangerously excessive musical appetites, free us from the stupor of the day-to-day, the slog, the oversized hills and dales of daily "life.” Their trick is not to obfuscate or to "lead us down the path,” but to strikingly reveal the shit and the sham and to JAM it out of the cosmos. Oh and to see them LIVE!

Raised by Robots in a frieze of rock, past and future: a pick in a blurred downstroke, upraised stix and the hard rock throb of serious bass. The skip and dance of their tunes will ignite your protoplasm— you'll be drunk on the sheerness of it all. Please friends, don't turn it down, turn it OUT!