| "I'm a poor, drunken orphan with
nowhere to go but the grave" wailed a wailfish and non-plussed Mr.
Chris Funk as he lay supine by the railroad tracks. The crate of
records he had been cradling in his nubile appendages now lay in pieces
on the ashen ground, his complete collected recordings of sixties
psychedelic luminary Rick "Paisley Dave" Rigmore scattered hit her and
yon like so many dead leaves beneath a diseased elm. Noting his neglect
to accredit this phrase to its rightful owner, chief engineer Jenny
Conlee, her accordion neatly strapped to her back, stepped lightly from
the caboose and corrected his negligence with the aplomb only an
immigrant Hungarian could muster: "Dylan Thomas, sir! Please move
along!" But it was too late: an indelible bond had been soldered in
that moment of recognition. A few hours later, in a Turkish bath, they
revealed their stories to one another between sips of a strange,
tangerine liqueur. Not far from that spot, however, two young military
dignitaries (John "Spider" Moen, Nate Query), appropriatrly lathered,
overheard our two heroes' stories. Was it chance, then, that lead the
four unsuspecting bathers to seek to return their soiled undergarments
at the same kiosk where worked the poor, bespectacled Colin Meloy? One
can surmise all one wants, but the truth should be known that, after
adopting the moniker The Decemberists, these five wan vagabonds began
playing their peculiarly styled pop music in various concert-halls and
brothels all across the globe.
god why is their bio so amazing.
i <3 the decemberists much.
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