Tucked into the mountains of southwest Virginia, Roanoke is a city of shadows and mist. The Bastards of Fate didn't move there to become famous-they were born there, to grow up obscure. But as the release of their 2nd album, Vampires are Real and Palpable, approaches, the band's reputation continues to spread like a well-executed piece of vandalism. A handful of rave reviews here, a successful tour of Europe there, and people are beginning to notice.
The Bastards make music for the 21st century, and possibly-if we make it that far as a species-the 22nd, It's a cluttered screaming cacophony of connected isolation. 'Winter of Our Discontent' may be the bleakest, most emotionally wrecked thing you'll hear all year, and 'Own It' might be the funniest-funny the way Kafka is funny, and bleak the way Bataille is bleak. Or is it the other way around? I guess we're trying to say that Bastards write like novelists, that they sing with the soul of a choir, and they sound like nothing else on earth.
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