The persona of clappity-finger-roll rock patterns still lingers amongst us.  Although necessary with an Iron City and a steak, the tunes we claim as Jaane go for both ears.  When resistance is futile, call upon Jaane.  Get your rump ready, tilt your earballs forward, and commence to jam.  If the conscious be smitten choke-up a lil', shorty. 

Take the book-rule double, steal third, and walk your way home- it's a creeper.  Now sentiment is checked at the door, champ, because we've been chewing on stems too long for fits and tantrums.  We need a real bite, and we'll take anything you can cough up: bent fingers, bunyans (we love bunyans), ramrods, shoddy art, fine art . . . whatev.  After all, the Blarney stone is just a stone. Rub it too long and you'll see. 

We had a boxer-mascot, Pete. He rubbed the Blarney too long and turned into an oversized, pear-shaped, stuffed duck.  Turns out, ducks are pretty good mascots. They only need a little bit of water to retain their ducky chipper, kinda like a chia pet.  Really, ducks aren't our schtick, either. If Jaane had to, we would personify a freerange, drunken Pac Man gobbling up tumbleweeds on the outskirts of Omaha; sitting down every year or so to some flavorful homecooking. 

This music can expand, contract, run 782 circles under a solo lightning cloud and still manage to find shelter under your lid, safebox, or mattress.  We'd like to put holes in your jeans, so go steal yourself some wranglers and get steppin'.  This music is more than a couple of tracks, it's pre-thought, pre-determined, and pre-anylized like a victimless 911 center.  So allow us to taint your neurotransmitters with a semi-aggressive caustic formula of musical gelatin- no more over the edge than the 6th street self-hostage and no more virile than a crash of rhinoceri at a sperm bank.  Kerplunk!  Here ya go, so latch on, because we can't wait to smell yinz guys` sweat.