Carl Begai

A close friend of mine recently suggested I check out a Canadian band he’d come across in his travels. We’re always sharing our musical discoveries, so I trusted his judgement when he pointed me in their direction. I wasn’t “Why-in-the-hell-aren’t-they-signed?” bowled over by what I heard, but they didn’t make me feel like I’d just wasted my time wading through the usual MySpace layout hiccups to get to the audio samples either. What really grabbed my attention, however, was the band’s biography. In a nutshell, if my presence on that page had been a scene in a splatter film I would have been ripped apart by a bag of exploding adjectives.

It was two or three paragraphs shovelling the required industry bullshit about how much the band rawked and smoked and was the best thing since ketchup-flavoured Crispers. The piece was loaded down with so many descriptives and flowery turns of phrase that it read like a car salesman’s Scrabble tournament. I couldn’t get through it without laughing. (continue reading…)