In 2003, the music world still reeled from a five-year-long onslaught of prepubescent pop princes and princesses charging the charts and airwaves like the beaches at Normandy. Reappearing and repeating ad nauseam, if one got picked off, another would quickly rise to raise the flag of bubblegum mediocrity. Years before, the record moguls had gathered together around the oval linoleum for platters of Sushi and Red Stripe and to discuss the harvesting of a gigantic teen angst garden planted with the seeds made from thongs and bulging crotches. It would be a glorious farm filled lush Britney's, vast Justin's and beautiful Christina's and all the world would eat from it, whether they were hungry or not. But as with all gardens, there would of course be a few weeds. However, they figured, most could be pulled before they were allowed to flourish and grow. The band FINGER was a weed. A retarded seed that grew into a vine that would be bent and intent on strangling the white smiling, fake breasted carbon copies who had cancerously raped the land. Six accomplished yet bitingly raw musicians set against a backdrop of straight ahead energy Rock n' Roll (does anyone remember what that is?) and coupled with sweetly sardonic lyrics. A sight to be seen live, they leave out the ribbons and bows and deliver the gift with no wrapping at all. A mixed bag of musicology, studio-rat attitude and on-the-road experience, their 2/3rd original and 1/3rd cover songs draw from a pallet of eclectic colors like the avant-garde Velvet Underground, the heavy Black Sabbath and the Country-fried Lynyrd Skynyrd. Throw in a little gospel revival and some modern day pop and you've got yourself a Finger. Not since OJ rode a Bronco or Clinton stained a dress has something been so captivatingly entertaining. So if you're idea of a fun night is sitting home watching Must See TV while digging through a still-frozen Hungry Man, you best stay away. But if you prefer some hard-core porn and Tabasco on Filet Minot, you need some FINGER. Come get some.