Evans Blue

Evans Blue Biography

The connection exists somewhere between the melody and the energetic nature of volume. When seen at this level, you can see how the shapes deviate from the original sources, and you will soon see five as one. Please remember to mark your words and speak them with a cadence that appears to be reckless but is also cultured by the sights and sounds coming from your cheap stereo. In the corner of this room, there exists a grouping that stretches beyond its years…I heard from a passerby it was called Evans Blue.

The drummer/the influence/the drive – it is steady, it is solid, demanding attention and calling out from behind the walls of sound. Far below the black and blue exists the man behind the kit. He is speaking to you through his medium tonight, and he is incessant. The feeling in your chest is warm and a little unnatural. The nerve endings in your ears begin firing, and the synapse is intoxicating. You listen, and soon the rhythm becomes in sync with your heartbeat.

The bass/the quiet/the low – it is pounding into the back of your head, and you feel it, and it feels just right. The tall, silent figure, solitary in his movement and expert in his delivery, crafts the lines that are smooth. You follow them around with your eyes, and they take you along a whirlwind called Hades. You're lost in a circle. You’re hoping to find a way out, but you know that there isn't one...at least not at this time. Your heart shakes, and you find yourself in love with the motion.

The strings 1/the chords/the distortion – it will grab you, and you will let it. The body is hunched over, and his instrument swings below like a pendulum. The sweeping motion becomes hypnotic, as do the sounds that emanate from behind him. It feels familiar but so different and in the end so alluring. The notes are played, sometimes clean and sometimes black. They work their way inside of you, and you feel light-headed. In an involuntary moment, your heart skips.

The strings 2/the lead/the aura – it leaves you wanting more. The dark-eyed teacher bends and comes close to breaking the strings that hold you. You hear it. It seems faint as it reaches out, and soon you realize that it has lofty intentions. It can tie you in knots if you let it. He takes the whole and adds himself, whatever twisted parts he can map out. You're feeling a little twisted yourself. You sit relaxed inside your head and attempt to breathe it in. It took some time...your heart speeds up.

The singer/the whisper/the voice – it leaves you haunted. The eyes tell all on this one. He opens up when he is on display, and the shy boy is placed into hiding for a moment. The sadness that pours out is honest and not always articulate. You listen...you relate...you respond. The elegant dance has begun. The cycle will complete itself, and the whole time you will be taken in by emotions. They'll control you, and you'll enjoy it. Soon it will get blurry, and you'll have trouble seeing. When the microphone drops, your heart breaks.

The music/the style/the expression – it comes at you like a freight train. You shift to the left, and you fall backwards to the right. It continues to attack…fast, then slow, then fast again. It has all the ear markings of a professional killer, and its movements are intense and beautiful at the same time. Your heart is full, and within seconds you are consumed by the melody and the energetic nature of volume.


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