Seven true-ish stories. Click the button to reveal each one.
We borrowed a station wagon for our first gig and it broke down twice on the way there. We made it anyway, somehow, with all four of us crammed in. We named ourselves after the only car that ever believed in us.
Asked and answered — he might look like he's here to stay, but Frans is too busy stomping like Bonham or Ward and studying Peart to miss a single gig. He knows every rapper since the 80s and, in his spare time, drops bars as Fransynatra. The merch table still has his old drumstick from the world tour.
Ten percent of every merch sale goes to youth music programs. The rule is simple: if you can afford a shirt, a kid somewhere gets a first guitar lesson.
It’s the desert highway we drove to our first real show. We ran out of gas at mile 7, fixed a flat tire at mile 77, and still got there early. Seven is lucky, twice over — the number just means: you’ll get there.
Everyone puts a few dollars in the “gas & snacks” jar at the start of every trip. It has never been empty and it has never been robbed, because nobody knows where the jar lives. We have a band lawyer for other things, and a jar for this.
René writes most of them while stuck in traffic. He swears the songs get better the longer the red lights last. We’ve considered thanking rush hour in the album booklet.
We sell “Getaway” mugs that say zero caffeine, 100% good energy on the side. Every cup sold pays for a school music program donation, and honestly they sell way better than the band photos. We have accepted our fate.