Located in the bowels of central connecticut, the rock band Album tries like hell to combat the pervasive malaise of suburban life by writing songs that are quasi-meaningful, personal, satirical, semi-spiritual and somewhat ironic and performing them far too loud with crackling out of tune electric guitars that overpower nervous vocals. The band takes specific pride in a lack of desire for sonic perfection and a reckless disregard for their listeners, who are, by and by, imaginary. You, if you are reading this ridiculous exercise in promotional science, are likely their first listener. As such, they love you, even if you are a jerk. The band Album forgives everyone for anything, except their teachers and whomever is elected President of the United States. It is their desire to rescue you from the boredom of listening to formulaic cliche-ridden music by artists who play to feel like rock stars. Album does this by writing formulaic rock songs riddled with cliches that will get stuck in your head, where Album hopes they will stay until your death, which Album hopes will be peaceful.