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Incidentally, in 2006 there was a mass exodus from the state of Michigan. The reasons are unclear, though some reports suggest the migration was fear-based. A result of false-flag terror alerts purported by the government and other Zionist media conglomerates warning that Detroit would soon be captured and enslaved by Canadian Muslims if Michiganders didn't start using more credit cards, right now!

Music, as a whole, was prohibited by homeland security mandate. This was serious stuff. Desperate times. Innocents like drummer Jeff Gensterblum and guitarist/balladeer Sean Hoen were befuddled, slowly roaming the Appalachian trails in search of a new home. These musicians had once enjoyed worldwide success in bands like Small Brown Bike, The Holy Fire, and Thoughts of Ionesco; but in Michigan, 2006 was no time for the arts. There was upheaval, a rationing of food and fuel, a lot of Republicans, stuff like that. Hoen and Gensterblum lived nomadically, in the foothills.

To their fortune, bassist and visual artist Chadwick Whitehead had long since escaped the impending perils of the state of Michigan. He lured the two bohemians to a Brooklyn warehouse and explained that rock n' roll was not dead. Maybe in Michigan, but not here in the dirty apple.

The drummer and guitarist/balladeer were weary: sores blistering their feet, having almost forgotten what music was after living on bark, dandelions, and other things that require a fully functioning appendix in order to digest. Was it possible? That the earth was still in need of a working band? That the new world order had not yet extinguished the human spirit and effectively replaced creative sound with midi-sequenced loops provided by the Federal Reserve Creative Control Dept? Suite 456? Act 10067.666?

Anyway, they began rehearsing. Soon more Michiganders trudged across the Pennsylvania Mountains, lead by the sound of these neo-frontiersman. Soon New York in general began to laud the nascent, savant-like genius of this strange band. Theirs was a sound of political and sexual revolution. 2008-style. Their songs were absurdly topical: missives about malfunctioning prophylactics, sex with mannequins, pedophiliac preachers, and the mysteries of the human condition.

They were famous before they even chose a name. Then the heavens chose one for them: YOUR SKULL MY CLOSET.

Whose skull in the closet? That's the wrong question. The right question is: Whose skull isn't in the closet? Certainly yours is, that has been established. And the entire Bush family too: we got 'em skinned, their bones polished. Not too mention David Rockefeller and his entire inbred clan. Oh, and George Clooney. They’re all in there. Come into the closet, it's a party. You don't even need clothes. Just your shiny bones. Perk up. Rock n' Roll is still alive.