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Before Greek columns were considered art, they were considered architecture. The best works do a certain job, and GRECCO ROMANK, like the architects of old, knew this when they sheltered inside a farmhouse, and then a haunted school, to produce their breakout album, RED TOWER.
First, the hermetic group stuck stray scraps of paper to the walls. Then, idea-fragments became idea-threads, and strange sigils turned into songs. The results were bizarre: A waterboarding fetish? A parasite-riddled unionist? The raw material was dynamited and compounded, and then dynamited again, resulting in a maximal amount of shrapnel, a maximal amount of holes.
Grecco Romank built upon the outsider dance foundations of Auckland’s underground fringe, piledriving into the same land they had earlier reclaimed in former projects like club-fugs STRESS CADET, gunk-punks The Drab Doo Riffs, and Bib Kids. Grecco Romank was a staircase’s worth of co-conspirators that included filmmaker Damian Golfinopoulos, classically trained singer Billie Fee, and former bus driver Mikey Sperring. Their shared musical grammar just happened to be one in which Snapper rhymed with the KLF, in which Negativland wrote all their own songs, and in which Vangelis tapes sold for three hundred dollars instead of three dollars. (Just as great cities come from great cultures, great bands come from great bargain bins).
Surprisingly, Grecco Romank charted on alternative radio, however much it might have scared each city’s art kid population. But if you ask anyone who put their feet on the floor at any venue on the band’s recent Mental Stealth tour (or even as they supported Vanessa Worm), they’ll agree that this music makes the most sense in meatspace. Indeed, the band’s upcoming Catacombs and Flying Out slots will prove it; PA systems will strain to support the group’s electronic maximalism, and crowd-brows low and high will be drizzled with sweat.
The lesson? Good musical projects, like all pretty machines, do things. If they don’t spontaneously combust, they reach out and grab you like the television sets in Videodrome. So, what is this RED TOWER? Is it a great design that once held up a civilisation? No. It is just a plinth. A plinth which, in its decayed opulence, upholds sculptures of great kings. Great kings who once were waterboarded for kicks.
- Michael McClelland
Before Greek columns were considered art, they were considered architecture. The best works do a certain job, and GRECCO ROMANK, like the architects of old, knew this when they sheltered inside a farmhouse, and then a haunted school, to produce their breakout album, RED TOWER.
First, the hermetic group stuck stray scraps of paper to the walls. Then, idea-fragments became idea-threads, and strange sigils turned into songs. The results were bizarre: A waterboarding fetish? A parasite-riddled unionist? The raw material was dynamited and compounded, and then dynamited again, resulting in a maximal amount of shrapnel, a maximal amount of holes.
Grecco Romank built upon the outsider dance foundations of Auckland’s underground fringe, piledriving into the same land they had earlier reclaimed in former projects like club-fugs STRESS CADET, gunk-punks The Drab Doo Riffs, and Bib Kids. Grecco Romank was a staircase’s worth of co-conspirators that included filmmaker Damian Golfinopoulos, classically trained singer Billie Fee, and former bus driver Mikey Sperring. Their shared musical grammar just happened to be one in which Snapper rhymed with the KLF, in which Negativland wrote all their own songs, and in which Vangelis tapes sold for three hundred dollars instead of three dollars. (Just as great cities come from great cultures, great bands come from great bargain bins).
Surprisingly, Grecco Romank charted on alternative radio, however much it might have scared each city’s art kid population. But if you ask anyone who put their feet on the floor at any venue on the band’s recent Mental Stealth tour (or even as they supported Vanessa Worm), they’ll agree that this music makes the most sense in meatspace. Indeed, the band’s upcoming Catacombs and Flying Out slots will prove it; PA systems will strain to support the group’s electronic maximalism, and crowd-brows low and high will be drizzled with sweat.
The lesson? Good musical projects, like all pretty machines, do things. If they don’t spontaneously combust, they reach out and grab you like the television sets in Videodrome. So, what is this RED TOWER? Is it a great design that once held up a civilisation? No. It is just a plinth. A plinth which, in its decayed opulence, upholds sculptures of great kings. Great kings who once were waterboarded for kicks.
- Michael McClelland
Before Greek columns were considered art, they were considered architecture. The best works do a certain job, and GRECCO ROMANK, like the architects of old, knew this when they sheltered inside a farmhouse, and then a haunted school, to produce their breakout album, RED TOWER.
First, the hermetic group stuck stray scraps of paper to the walls. Then, idea-fragments became idea-threads, and strange sigils turned into songs. The results were bizarre: A waterboarding fetish? A parasite-riddled unionist? The raw material was dynamited and compounded, and then dynamited again, resulting in a maximal amount of shrapnel, a maximal amount of holes.
Grecco Romank built upon the outsider dance foundations of Auckland’s underground fringe, piledriving into the same land they had earlier reclaimed in former projects like club-fugs STRESS CADET, gunk-punks The Drab Doo Riffs, and Bib Kids. Grecco Romank was a staircase’s worth of co-conspirators that included filmmaker Damian Golfinopoulos, classically trained singer Billie Fee, and former bus driver Mikey Sperring. Their shared musical grammar just happened to be one in which Snapper rhymed with the KLF, in which Negativland wrote all their own songs, and in which Vangelis tapes sold for three hundred dollars instead of three dollars. (Just as great cities come from great cultures, great bands come from great bargain bins).
Surprisingly, Grecco Romank charted on alternative radio, however much it might have scared each city’s art kid population. But if you ask anyone who put their feet on the floor at any venue on the band’s recent Mental Stealth tour (or even as they supported Vanessa Worm), they’ll agree that this music makes the most sense in meatspace. Indeed, the band’s upcoming Catacombs and Flying Out slots will prove it; PA systems will strain to support the group’s electronic maximalism, and crowd-brows low and high will be drizzled with sweat.
The lesson? Good musical projects, like all pretty machines, do things. If they don’t spontaneously combust, they reach out and grab you like the television sets in Videodrome. So, what is this RED TOWER? Is it a great design that once held up a civilisation? No. It is just a plinth. A plinth which, in its decayed opulence, upholds sculptures of great kings. Great kings who once were waterboarded for kicks.
- Michael McClelland
Before Greek columns were considered art, they were considered architecture. The best works do a certain job, and GRECCO ROMANK, like the architects of old, knew this when they sheltered inside a farmhouse, and then a haunted school, to produce their breakout album, RED TOWER.
First, the hermetic group stuck stray scraps of paper to the walls. Then, idea-fragments became idea-threads, and strange sigils turned into songs. The results were bizarre: A waterboarding fetish? A parasite-riddled unionist? The raw material was dynamited and compounded, and then dynamited again, resulting in a maximal amount of shrapnel, a maximal amount of holes.
Grecco Romank built upon the outsider dance foundations of Auckland’s underground fringe, piledriving into the same land they had earlier reclaimed in former projects like club-fugs STRESS CADET, gunk-punks The Drab Doo Riffs, and Bib Kids. Grecco Romank was a staircase’s worth of co-conspirators that included filmmaker Damian Golfinopoulos, classically trained singer Billie Fee, and former bus driver Mikey Sperring. Their shared musical grammar just happened to be one in which Snapper rhymed with the KLF, in which Negativland wrote all their own songs, and in which Vangelis tapes sold for three hundred dollars instead of three dollars. (Just as great cities come from great cultures, great bands come from great bargain bins).
Surprisingly, Grecco Romank charted on alternative radio, however much it might have scared each city’s art kid population. But if you ask anyone who put their feet on the floor at any venue on the band’s recent Mental Stealth tour (or even as they supported Vanessa Worm), they’ll agree that this music makes the most sense in meatspace. Indeed, the band’s upcoming Catacombs and Flying Out slots will prove it; PA systems will strain to support the group’s electronic maximalism, and crowd-brows low and high will be drizzled with sweat.
The lesson? Good musical projects, like all pretty machines, do things. If they don’t spontaneously combust, they reach out and grab you like the television sets in Videodrome. So, what is this RED TOWER? Is it a great design that once held up a civilisation? No. It is just a plinth. A plinth which, in its decayed opulence, upholds sculptures of great kings. Great kings who once were waterboarded for kicks.
- Michael McClelland
Before Greek columns were considered art, they were considered architecture. The best works do a certain job, and GRECCO ROMANK, like the architects of old, knew this when they sheltered inside a farmhouse, and then a haunted school, to produce their breakout album, RED TOWER.
First, the hermetic group stuck stray scraps of paper to the walls. Then, idea-fragments became idea-threads, and strange sigils turned into songs. The results were bizarre: A waterboarding fetish? A parasite-riddled unionist? The raw material was dynamited and compounded, and then dynamited again, resulting in a maximal amount of shrapnel, a maximal amount of holes.
Grecco Romank built upon the outsider dance foundations of Auckland’s underground fringe, piledriving into the same land they had earlier reclaimed in former projects like club-fugs STRESS CADET, gunk-punks The Drab Doo Riffs, and Bib Kids. Grecco Romank was a staircase’s worth of co-conspirators that included filmmaker Damian Golfinopoulos, classically trained singer Billie Fee, and former bus driver Mikey Sperring. Their shared musical grammar just happened to be one in which Snapper rhymed with the KLF, in which Negativland wrote all their own songs, and in which Vangelis tapes sold for three hundred dollars instead of three dollars. (Just as great cities come from great cultures, great bands come from great bargain bins).
Surprisingly, Grecco Romank charted on alternative radio, however much it might have scared each city’s art kid population. But if you ask anyone who put their feet on the floor at any venue on the band’s recent Mental Stealth tour (or even as they supported Vanessa Worm), they’ll agree that this music makes the most sense in meatspace. Indeed, the band’s upcoming Catacombs and Flying Out slots will prove it; PA systems will strain to support the group’s electronic maximalism, and crowd-brows low and high will be drizzled with sweat.
The lesson? Good musical projects, like all pretty machines, do things. If they don’t spontaneously combust, they reach out and grab you like the television sets in Videodrome. So, what is this RED TOWER? Is it a great design that once held up a civilisation? No. It is just a plinth. A plinth which, in its decayed opulence, upholds sculptures of great kings. Great kings who once were waterboarded for kicks.
- Michael McClelland
Before Greek columns were considered art, they were considered architecture. The best works do a certain job, and GRECCO ROMANK, like the architects of old, knew this when they sheltered inside a farmhouse, and then a haunted school, to produce their breakout album, RED TOWER.
First, the hermetic group stuck stray scraps of paper to the walls. Then, idea-fragments became idea-threads, and strange sigils turned into songs. The results were bizarre: A waterboarding fetish? A parasite-riddled unionist? The raw material was dynamited and compounded, and then dynamited again, resulting in a maximal amount of shrapnel, a maximal amount of holes.
Grecco Romank built upon the outsider dance foundations of Auckland’s underground fringe, piledriving into the same land they had earlier reclaimed in former projects like club-fugs STRESS CADET, gunk-punks The Drab Doo Riffs, and Bib Kids. Grecco Romank was a staircase’s worth of co-conspirators that included filmmaker Damian Golfinopoulos, classically trained singer Billie Fee, and former bus driver Mikey Sperring. Their shared musical grammar just happened to be one in which Snapper rhymed with the KLF, in which Negativland wrote all their own songs, and in which Vangelis tapes sold for three hundred dollars instead of three dollars. (Just as great cities come from great cultures, great bands come from great bargain bins).
Surprisingly, Grecco Romank charted on alternative radio, however much it might have scared each city’s art kid population. But if you ask anyone who put their feet on the floor at any venue on the band’s recent Mental Stealth tour (or even as they supported Vanessa Worm), they’ll agree that this music makes the most sense in meatspace. Indeed, the band’s upcoming Catacombs and Flying Out slots will prove it; PA systems will strain to support the group’s electronic maximalism, and crowd-brows low and high will be drizzled with sweat.
The lesson? Good musical projects, like all pretty machines, do things. If they don’t spontaneously combust, they reach out and grab you like the television sets in Videodrome. So, what is this RED TOWER? Is it a great design that once held up a civilisation? No. It is just a plinth. A plinth which, in its decayed opulence, upholds sculptures of great kings. Great kings who once were waterboarded for kicks.
- Michael McClelland
Before Greek columns were considered art, they were considered architecture. The best works do a certain job, and GRECCO ROMANK, like the architects of old, knew this when they sheltered inside a farmhouse, and then a haunted school, to produce their breakout album, RED TOWER.
First, the hermetic group stuck stray scraps of paper to the walls. Then, idea-fragments became idea-threads, and strange sigils turned into songs. The results were bizarre: A waterboarding fetish? A parasite-riddled unionist? The raw material was dynamited and compounded, and then dynamited again, resulting in a maximal amount of shrapnel, a maximal amount of holes.
Grecco Romank built upon the outsider dance foundations of Auckland’s underground fringe, piledriving into the same land they had earlier reclaimed in former projects like club-fugs STRESS CADET, gunk-punks The Drab Doo Riffs, and Bib Kids. Grecco Romank was a staircase’s worth of co-conspirators that included filmmaker Damian Golfinopoulos, classically trained singer Billie Fee, and former bus driver Mikey Sperring. Their shared musical grammar just happened to be one in which Snapper rhymed with the KLF, in which Negativland wrote all their own songs, and in which Vangelis tapes sold for three hundred dollars instead of three dollars. (Just as great cities come from great cultures, great bands come from great bargain bins).
Surprisingly, Grecco Romank charted on alternative radio, however much it might have scared each city’s art kid population. But if you ask anyone who put their feet on the floor at any venue on the band’s recent Mental Stealth tour (or even as they supported Vanessa Worm), they’ll agree that this music makes the most sense in meatspace. Indeed, the band’s upcoming Catacombs and Flying Out slots will prove it; PA systems will strain to support the group’s electronic maximalism, and crowd-brows low and high will be drizzled with sweat.
The lesson? Good musical projects, like all pretty machines, do things. If they don’t spontaneously combust, they reach out and grab you like the television sets in Videodrome. So, what is this RED TOWER? Is it a great design that once held up a civilisation? No. It is just a plinth. A plinth which, in its decayed opulence, upholds sculptures of great kings. Great kings who once were waterboarded for kicks.
- Michael McClelland
Before Greek columns were considered art, they were considered architecture. The best works do a certain job, and GRECCO ROMANK, like the architects of old, knew this when they sheltered inside a farmhouse, and then a haunted school, to produce their breakout album, RED TOWER.
First, the hermetic group stuck stray scraps of paper to the walls. Then, idea-fragments became idea-threads, and strange sigils turned into songs. The results were bizarre: A waterboarding fetish? A parasite-riddled unionist? The raw material was dynamited and compounded, and then dynamited again, resulting in a maximal amount of shrapnel, a maximal amount of holes.
Grecco Romank built upon the outsider dance foundations of Auckland’s underground fringe, piledriving into the same land they had earlier reclaimed in former projects like club-fugs STRESS CADET, gunk-punks The Drab Doo Riffs, and Bib Kids. Grecco Romank was a staircase’s worth of co-conspirators that included filmmaker Damian Golfinopoulos, classically trained singer Billie Fee, and former bus driver Mikey Sperring. Their shared musical grammar just happened to be one in which Snapper rhymed with the KLF, in which Negativland wrote all their own songs, and in which Vangelis tapes sold for three hundred dollars instead of three dollars. (Just as great cities come from great cultures, great bands come from great bargain bins).
Surprisingly, Grecco Romank charted on alternative radio, however much it might have scared each city’s art kid population. But if you ask anyone who put their feet on the floor at any venue on the band’s recent Mental Stealth tour (or even as they supported Vanessa Worm), they’ll agree that this music makes the most sense in meatspace. Indeed, the band’s upcoming Catacombs and Flying Out slots will prove it; PA systems will strain to support the group’s electronic maximalism, and crowd-brows low and high will be drizzled with sweat.
The lesson? Good musical projects, like all pretty machines, do things. If they don’t spontaneously combust, they reach out and grab you like the television sets in Videodrome. So, what is this RED TOWER? Is it a great design that once held up a civilisation? No. It is just a plinth. A plinth which, in its decayed opulence, upholds sculptures of great kings. Great kings who once were waterboarded for kicks.
- Michael McClelland
Before Greek columns were considered art, they were considered architecture. The best works do a certain job, and GRECCO ROMANK, like the architects of old, knew this when they sheltered inside a farmhouse, and then a haunted school, to produce their breakout album, RED TOWER.
First, the hermetic group stuck stray scraps of paper to the walls. Then, idea-fragments became idea-threads, and strange sigils turned into songs. The results were bizarre: A waterboarding fetish? A parasite-riddled unionist? The raw material was dynamited and compounded, and then dynamited again, resulting in a maximal amount of shrapnel, a maximal amount of holes.
Grecco Romank built upon the outsider dance foundations of Auckland’s underground fringe, piledriving into the same land they had earlier reclaimed in former projects like club-fugs STRESS CADET, gunk-punks The Drab Doo Riffs, and Bib Kids. Grecco Romank was a staircase’s worth of co-conspirators that included filmmaker Damian Golfinopoulos, classically trained singer Billie Fee, and former bus driver Mikey Sperring. Their shared musical grammar just happened to be one in which Snapper rhymed with the KLF, in which Negativland wrote all their own songs, and in which Vangelis tapes sold for three hundred dollars instead of three dollars. (Just as great cities come from great cultures, great bands come from great bargain bins).
Surprisingly, Grecco Romank charted on alternative radio, however much it might have scared each city’s art kid population. But if you ask anyone who put their feet on the floor at any venue on the band’s recent Mental Stealth tour (or even as they supported Vanessa Worm), they’ll agree that this music makes the most sense in meatspace. Indeed, the band’s upcoming Catacombs and Flying Out slots will prove it; PA systems will strain to support the group’s electronic maximalism, and crowd-brows low and high will be drizzled with sweat.
The lesson? Good musical projects, like all pretty machines, do things. If they don’t spontaneously combust, they reach out and grab you like the television sets in Videodrome. So, what is this RED TOWER? Is it a great design that once held up a civilisation? No. It is just a plinth. A plinth which, in its decayed opulence, upholds sculptures of great kings. Great kings who once were waterboarded for kicks.
- Michael McClelland
