Man In Gray plays noisy, whip-smart indie rock with one pretty guitar, one ferocious guitar, one punk bass, and one jackhammer drummer. Screams and whispers from Tina rise above the mayhem like a lightning rod, drawing it all together. With songs about shock, awe, and why February 14th is dumb, Man in Gray turns familiar post-punk sources into something entirely new. Even as they play heart-racingly hard and fast, they never sacrifice precision or the pretty parts. Their live show is a wake-up call for the bored, the jaded, the tired, the arms-folded mopers. It's an enthusiastic soundtrack to mayhem, careening from sharp pop harmonies to violent, sweaty rock. A little dancey, a little trashy, yet somehow always classy.
Man in Gray enjoys: the Pixies, Mission of Burma, Sleater-Kinney, the Secret Machines, the Thermals, Brooklyn, long walks on the beach, going to their friends' gigs, and reading books about the inadequacies of the Whig Party prior to The Civil War. Their favorite drink is more scotch.
Lyrics:
I want the horror, not tomorrow . . . be satisfied . . . and you can take it back, no compromise, shut the windows . . . it's good enough . . . you must be used to this now . . . not good enough (x4) . . .Lyrics:
There is a tunnel, leading to a no man's world, and television does not lie to me, how does it feel to be a meltdown, took up drugs, took up guns, . . . duck and cover, shoot to kill . . . corrosion, we run through subway lines, I look away, shoot to kill . . . but in the end it falls on you
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