Meet Plague Bubonika. They play thrash-psych-surf-rock, so basically the auditory form of eating sand as a wave tosses your body-surfing ass: oh fuck I think I might die but this is really fun. Fitting for their sound, I was introduced to them in a rad turn of cosmic events, a Twitter friendship and micro family reunion at Williamsburg's Trash Bar - a perfect night for the memory shelves as the music venue is slated to close due to raising rent price. The show caught you off guard in that sense where you had to hold your breathe as you felt something important was happening. Strings popped off a guitar, the boys conjured a new one from the arms of the sweaty audience and continued playing with a mere brush off the shoulder. Plague Bubonika is Tony, Dreamy, Atilla Hunk and Zacky Boy coming live from Wilmington, DE. As if it wasn't a rockin' special time already, they dedicated a song to yours truly, which I must shamelessly brag about and request you listen to below.
The take away from this post is that nepotism is fine with the talent and originality to back it up, and journalists are attention seeking narcissists who can absolutely be won over. Oh yeah, and get sick on Plague Bubonika without losing eye contact - I see big things ahead.
