The Gang have spent the entirety of its five year existence meticulously fine-tuning a high articulation of hedonism, mastering the unlearned art of cummunicating volumes through word economy and riff repitition, and lauding the embarrassments of regret as rather exotic outposts on both antiquated and yet unchartered maps. So dedicated to the complete party are they that months and months of all night practices often lapse between thirty minute shows where they arrive with broken amps and knock hockey paddles as drum sticks. So committed to crushing half-steppers that they will well overstep their strides into pits of pride before you have but a blink to second guess your first nervous unmasking. Originally conceivedin the ironbound section of newark, New Jersey, The Gang now divides it time between the Jersey shore, the Hamptons, Iceland and Brooklyn and tends to sound like Bruce Springsteen sans pedestal, the Psychacelic Furs if they weren't fey, an anthemic Can and increasingly, like a sgt. pepper's era Beatles if the Beatles really were fighting for something.