By Isa Jones
By Mary Willson
By Brian Turk
By Drew AIles
By Taylor Boylston
By Bree Davies
By Emerald O'Brien
But the Biscuits don't appear to be at any risk of wearing out their welcome. The four met and started playing together at the University of Pennsylvania in 1995 and have built their reputation from scratch. The jam sessions led to frat-party gigs, which began increasing in frequency, followed by an illustrious climb up through the local clubs. The Biscuits eventually branched out into New Jersey, then New York. In 1996 the group self-released its first album, Encephalous Crime, which hints vaguely at the Biscuits' future electronic bent but is otherwise forgettable (with the notable exception of a cover of Frank Zappa's "Pygmy Twylyte"). Next came The Uncivilized Area, a record that is more aligned with Dave Matthews and Jerry Garcia than with the rough-and-tumble drum and bass of Squarepusher or Orbital's ambient trippiness. These days, though, you'll find more similarities with the latter two bands than with the former, although fans' old habits die hard. "They're trying to go in a different direction, away from the jam-band stuff," says Robert John at Megaforce. "But the further away [the band] gets from New York -- where there are a lot of ravers, the Moby set -- you see more of the hippie-ish kids."
In the past year, the Biscuits' word-of-mouth buzz has indeed achieved a fever pitch. The industry is taking note as well: The band made its first appearance at South By Southwest in Austin this year. (Altman's take on the event? "I drank a lot of Flaming Dr Peppers.") Prominent among the group's supporters are the blissed-out, back-scratching, dancing kings and queens who are perpetually in search of the rhapsodic one-two punch of musically and pharmaceutically induced euphoria. (Some of the band's detractors insist that you have to be on something -- or just have a freakishly healthy attention span -- in order to actually enjoy the Bisco experience.) One might worry, though, about being associated with the rave/jam-band scene, especially here in Colorado, where labs are being shut down, huge busts are being made and high-schoolers are fatally pickling themselves as a result of E-induced dehydration. Most club kids and hipster types know damn well that "disco biscuit" is '70s slang for Quaaludes, co-opted today as a nickname for E. When asked about this, Altman alternates between being annoyingly coy and curiously defensive.
"Really? What is it?" he titters. "It just seemed like a good combination of words to me." When pressed further, his voice takes on a new edge. "Kids pretty much use drugs -- they're looking for an escape. Maybe if people were better parents, kids wouldn't feel the need to do drugs." Somewhere out there, Nancy Reagan is shifting uncomfortably in her seat.
D.A.R.E. concerns aside, the Biscuits have found their calling playing to a youthful populace that is more likely to Just Say No to Britney Spears's virginal stripteases than to the rampant menace of mindless hedonism for which the band just happens to be the soundtrack. Who's to say which method of boredom alleviation is more "right" or "wrong" than another? At least kids are getting exercise at raves instead of spending their evenings parked in front of the boob tube or playing Tomb Raider. As Gutwillig has said, "The bottom line is euphoria." It's all in how you choose to pursue it.