Worm Quartet is a Rochester, NY-based band that forcibly staples punk and electronica together and throws them into a blender with hysterically twisted lyrics. They have been featured repeatedly on the Dr. Demento show, and had the most requested song of 2004 with the ex-girlfriend rant "Great Idea For A Song," collaborated with Sudden Death on the most requested song of 2005 "Inner Voice," and had the 2nd most requested song of 2002 with the anti-drummer anthem "Franks Not In The Band Anymore." Yowza. The sole member of Worm Quartet is a 64 280-lb. bemulleted manic who insists on being called Shoebox" and who poses by day as a mild-mannered software engineer. Worm Quartet is currently playing all over the damned place whenever possible to support the new CD "Mental Notes." More information can be found at www.wormquartet.com.
Check out the "history" section on www.wormquartet.com for the whole sad story...
If there's a place that doesn't mind having a large weird guy with a mullet screaming obscenities about common household items over pre-recorded synth-punk, I'll friggin' play there. I tend to play at clubs with other less-silly bands (generally the punky mohawk-sporting and/or indie rock Elvis Costello glasses-wearing crowds tend to dig my stuff) and at sci-fi conventions with my peers in the comedy music world (the geek crowd, unsurprisingly, is rather open-minded when it comes to funny music.)
Atom & His Package, The Meatmen, Weird Al Yankovic, M.O.D., Bloodhound Gang, The Ramones, Descendents/All, The Freeze, The Cars, Screeching Weasel, Faith No More, KMFDM, Bad Religion, They Might Be Giants, and Jim Steinman.
A cheapass DOS-based tracking program, a few crappy keyboards, and the glorious CoolEdit Pro (a.k.a. Adobe Audition.)
Although the seldom-pruned rat scanner is nautically disabled, aren't we deflowering hydrants? Truly a bone in theyeast is worth ketchup in the hat when the tyrannical triangle of pain brandishes chili. So do we yogurt? Do we alphabetize our ape-chips, garnish aluminum Nazis, and yodel fervently our tales of lost tacos at the altar of fiberglass? I trapeze you, and yet I must fling sheep, for until the congressional poncho traverses the ottoman of digestion, mule-larvae will remain chairless, obscene, and jealous of your dishwasher. You seem to be of the faucet, and perhaps in the realm of the spackle-shakers, your screaming projector of uselessness would be unbleached. But when I hear the call of the bump, my ham is limber. The analog owl manufacturers try listlessly to smash cheese, and athough their yak-woks are omniscient, their copulating thermostats bleed not but turtles and yams. This is why, you fumigated marinated saturated spatulated kibbly little trout-player of itchiness, I caress this one scantily-trampled hamster vat: I farm where I romp, and I romp where I farm.