Who the fuck is Maserati?

Maserati is a son of a bitch hell bent on dismembering every last vestige of the so-called indie rock establishment before it can drive the last nail in its messenger-bag-wearing coffin.

What the fuck am I talking about?

This is not about me or your knowing about that of which I speak. No, fair warriors, this is about the now sound of ass kicking southern rock - a dynamic post-psychedelic orgy of hooks molesting the tired cliche of math-prog. This is Pink Floyd for hipsters. This is stoner rock for the working man. This is an ill-conceived bio for a band beyond the comprehension of your puny earth minds and you like it.

This isn't about facts, this is about feelings, rock hard feelings and Maserati is about nothing if not feeling... you... all night long.

For real though, at the end of the day, Maserati is the sum of her parts... her sweet, sweet mop-topped parts - a mustachioed Brooklyn scene king, a big city architect, a hard drinking college town booking agent and a wide-eyed idealist from South Carolina. She is a fair-haired magical musical hinterland where the quiet storm goes mano e mano with the thunderous beat of 10,000 Orcs hellbent for leather; a post-disco drone machine bristling with the buzz-saw sound of 1,000 angry square waves nestled on a California king size bed of shoegaze swirl. Seriously, get your shit together and catch the live show, write the rave review, buy the record and live the magic.

All night long.