Wimps attack the banality of existence with a serrated party knife, leaving all the various sinews and tendons sprawled out on the floor.
Bored with life? Swimming in the cold sweat of ennui? Eat it.
Wimps drums up a pop-filled, dance party that presses up against the mundane bullshit of paying bills, waking up, working lame jobs, hangovers, unemployment, laundry, saying hello. Featuring members from The Intelligence, Consignment, Meth Teeth, Butts and Partman Parthorse, Wimps run through a host of short, punk driven songs with distinct guitar, catchy vocals, and just enough playful bitterness that it can be easy to miss the serious affirmation of living. Try as we might, we have to wake up sometime. The curtains have to be opened. The trivial provides us with compelling narratives and moments of joy that, if we fail to acknowledge the absurdity of it all, drive us to dark, negating spaces rather than basking in the hysterical, exuberant joy of taking a breath or catching someone shitting in the alley. Wimps find a perfect balance between self awareness and raw, punk desolation. Their songs are short, ear-blistering, pop-infused, middle-finger acts of defiance. Like our favorite scrivener, Bartleby, they prefer not to; unlike him, Wimps devours the world in satiating bliss.
Party at the wrong time? Well, things could be worse.