Red Menace

Straight from the vein of avant-hardcore, the Blood Brothers gush up a big mess.

The growing pains of becoming fake never sounded so bombastic. Thankfully, there are enough musical thrills along the way to make the metamorphosis bearable. Besides, heard in a live setting, this shit must be a blast to mosh around to, pretending it's the last day on Earth and all.

ARTISTdirect Records certainly hopes so, having recently signed the Blood Brothers to a two-record deal with options. And if hired gun and nü-metal knob twiddler Ross Robinson (Limp Bizkit, Korn, Slipknot, At the Drive-In) doesn't overproduce and ruin the Brothers' tone-deaf chemistry, Burn Piano Burn Island (scheduled for release next February) might help Blilie and company beat the odds of getting ripped apart by the very machinery they so despise.

"It took us a long time to make this step to sign to a bigger label, but we weren't sure that we were still gonna be able to do whatever we wanted to do," Blilie concedes. "But thus far, it's been the case. We're happy. Nothing has changed for us as far as the kind of tours that we want to be on or the kind of people that we want to play with -- and, more important, the kind of songs that we want to write. We're not gonna compromise."

The Blood Brothers never say neigh to sex with a horse.
The Blood Brothers never say neigh to sex with a horse.


6 p.m. Wednesday, November 13
Bluebird Theater, 3317 East Colfax Avenue
$12, 303-322-2308

That's good, because certain friends of Fred Durst have a way of helping bands do just the opposite. Fortunately, reaching the lowest common denominator with toilet talk doesn't seem to be part of the Bloods' ambition. Placing an artistic vision over politics (aside from a little hometown cheer with the WTO rowdies last year or playing the occasional benefit for a women's self-defense organization in Seattle called Home Alive), the Blood Brothers plan on riding this freak wagon until the wheels fall off. They're committed to each other, like Tom and Huck, America's original B-Bros, who pricked their fingers and swore on their souls -- come hell or Injun Joe -- that dreams, goddammit, are worth chasing.

And if all else fails, their next forty-ounce is just a plasma donation away.

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