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The Phantom Limbs: The Mothership

Only the sleep will be allowed in, only the wise will know no destruction. Will lose their kin, the virtuous and altruistic and only the dreamers will know the Phantom Limbs.

This Just In: We're Still Here - June 11, 2012


I know it's been a long while since I've put words on here. So much has happened since the last time, and so little has happened simultaneously. And, goddammit, we're having the time of our lives. Here's a little catch up.

Previously on The Phantom Limbs:

In the last year or so, we've continued chugging through our 3 1/2 hour shows several nights a week at our familiar beach haunts while finding time in between to record, mix and master the third installment of our zombie-esque trilogy of EPs. The third, and final installment in the Zombie Chronicles, is entitled Episode 3: Return of the Dead Guy. The EP is seven songs deep, and if you've seen us play at all, ever, you'll recognize Bullshit, Tight Tommy, and The Night Honus Bishop Ate Bucky and Bobbi Sue. There's also some seriously disturbing new tracks you haven't heard, like our operatic organism rock ballad Turtles, and a wonderfully masochistic pop punk song entitled Totalay Bitchin. Me and our producer Ross mixed this beast ourselves, and it's the best record I've ever done, if I do say so myself. And I do.

We're releasing the record officially on June 23rd at Eastport A' Rockin in Annapolis. In case you're unfamiliar with our Eastport A Rockin victory, the good folks at the Eastport-based all day music festival finally offered us our very own cordial invitation to melt faces and pound oysters all day. We're also planning on bussing up our peeps from OC (if you're interested in riding the pirate bus up for the day contact Kasey Briggs on Facebook). We play the J stage at 12:30 pm, so grab a beer, an oyster shooter and whatever else you need to gitchyo mind right and join us!

We'll also releasing the record in Ocean City at one of our customary release parties, no doubt at Peppers Tavern, our home base and the only place in the universe where we don't feel like we're the ones that just farted in the elevator. 

We've also undergone a rather serious personnel change - though don't fret, the principals (myself, Kasey, Randy) will always be at your rocking and loyal service. But we've had to part ways with the other guy, who did so many great things for us and was a super friend and cool dude for years and years. We wish him luck with his DJing career and hope everybody goes to see him do his thing. 

And as soon as the haze and morning booze sweat that is the summer gets in our rearview mirror, we'll be starting our next batch of records which I'm excited to say will be released on 45 rpm vinyl singles. The series will be called The Bizarre Bazaar and will feature our newest tracks (with some old tunes) that will tie together with a common theme. So, if you're a fan of Jessica, the Bizarre Bazaar (the song) and The Big Tomato, you'll love the next chapter. The series will be released on our newly founded record label Bob the Organism Records (if you want to get your band on here with us, shoot me a message, this is my own personal label that I've started with our producer and Tribemark Studio owner Ross Hancock). Also, if you're scerred of vinyl, don't be, each record will come with a download code that allows you to download the digital tracks for free. 

So, in conclusion, thank you from the bottom of our cold, dead hearts for coming to our gigs, buying our records and being our friends. If you've come this far, perhaps you'd like to go a bit farther? Join us at Eastport A' Rockin, come to one of our weekly shows at the beach, and (perhaps most importantly) BUY OUR RECORDS on Amazon, CD Baby and iTunes. Please! For $5 you can support our band and keep us making music; more importantly you keep us young and passionate and drunk. That's my schill. (And in full disclosure, if you come to a gig and buy us a round of fireballs, we'll not only give you all three of our records, but we'll probably wash and buff up your ride, too). 

Thanks, guys. Mucho love and stuff. Moist. 

Peace, love and pancakes,


Beware the Ides of March - March 7, 2011

Ah, my dearest Cassius, as the Ides of March approach, thy Facebook status haunts me to my bones. Just a fortnight ago, I poked thee on such a gay night with my dog Brutus' iPad and now thee defriends me, and blocks me from seeing thy wall. As I sat weeping, cradling the weight of eternal sadness, I realized thy foul plot, thy sickening scheme. 

Okay, I'm tired of the Shakespeare schtick, but we are on a collision course with the aforementioned Ides, only instead of a political assassination, we're planing two killer fucking parties: Friday, March 12 at JC's Northside (this party is also doubling as my engagement party) and Saturday, the 13th at the Pit and Pub. You can also catch 2/3rds of the band along with a crew of stragglers tossing taffy from a boardwalk tram in the OC St. Patrick's Day Parade. If you see us on tram, please, hold out hats, cups, what-have-you, so we can have targets. 

We have a slew of other dates on the horizon and we're finally breaking into Annapolis. More on that later.

I want to take this time to shift my critical focus from the music industry to that of the cinema, or should I say cinesuck, or should I say cineblows, or should I say movies suck so bad that nearly every new release makes me want to paint the wall with my extra buttery popcorn saturated brains. Yeah, that's the one.

If you paid 10 dollars, plus concessions, you glutton, to go see Drive Angry, then I think you automatically get left out of the Rapture subway train that's supposedly leaving the station in May. 

But I digress. To put a positive spin on the amazingly low and drab place to which the American cinema has descended, the quality of premium cable TV shows more than compensates for the void of quality entertainment. Shows like True Blood, Big Love, Dexter, and, most recently, Shameless have successfully combined movie quality acting and production with the serial manner in which novels unfold. Ultimately, I recommend reading a book over seeing any movie that's out there, but if you're starved for easy entertainment, any one of these shows will quench your thirst. 

If you've managed to stay with me through this rubbish, you should know that it's very late, and I've had very little sleep as of late. No rest for the weary, or the mentally ill. I should take this time to schill:

Please please please, sister Socrates, buy our records. They are cheap and they help us make new ones, and that's all any of us want to do with our lives: make records. Also, come to our shows. I promise they will be fun. 

Here's my recipe for tempura softcrabs with an Asian and Jamaican fusion glaze. 


6 Softshell crabs or however many you and your peeps want (I always eat two), cleaned

Peanut oil for deepfrying

Tempura batter - 1 cup rice flour, 1/2 cup cornstarch, 2 teaspoons kosher salt, 2 teaspoons ground ginger, 10 oz club soda - Mix all that shit together except the club soda, which you whisk in vigorously. Beat that shit till it's a smooth, thick liquid (add water if it's too thick, more cornstarch if it's too liquidy), keep in on ice till you fry

Asian Jamacian glaze - fill a small saucepan with orange juice, add about a half cup of light soy sauce, 6 allspice berries, 1/4 cup of white wine vinegar and one habenero with 3 slits cut into it. cook that shit down till it reduces by half. Add some honey, salt and pepper and adjust the Asian-ness with more soy sauce or more vinegar. strain the sauce into a bowl to remove the big hunks of stuff and then put it back in the pot. Continue to cook down until it's a glaze - but don't burn it! Keep warm on the stove

Now, on to the good stuff. Heat up about a 4 or 5 inches of peanut oil to 350 in a heavy pot using a deep fry thermometer. One at a time, and in batches of three, dip your crabs into the batter and shake off excess drippies. Fry those bastards for about 3 minutes or until golden brown and remove to paper towels to drain. 

To plate, cut the crabs in half and stack them on the plate so that it looks like a tripped out Japanese forest. Drizzle some of the glaze on the bottom of the plate and garnish with thinly chopped green onions and thyme leaves. 

I also like to accompany this dish with thinly sliced cucumbers soaked in rice wine vinegar along with a slice of fresh mango.  

Suck it, loser.


2011, The Year of Our Limb - January 6, 2011

Hey, guys. It's been a little while. We've been busy breaking strings and throwing drums around, and I haven't really been able to drop an update. 

The state of Rock, Alternative Rock, Indie Rock and the recording industry in general remains piss fucking poor. Luckily we don't give a bag of sheep dick about any of those fookin prawns. We continue to make records, even though the "in" thing to do is write and upload tracks, and we continue to play loud, sloppy drunken shows at any bar that will have us. And no, loud dude in the back, we don't cover Lynyrd Skynyrd, and no, slutty late-20something chick in the front, we do not cover Pearl Jam. 

That said (which is another obnoxious much hated phrase by myself), the opportunities for us to get out there and tour have been strangled and limited. Sure, Ocean City and Baltimore have been kind to us. But I think we're ready to really get out to new places and take dumps in strange bathrooms across America. 

We're doing the best we can to book venues in other cities, but it's a challenge coming from us, an original band without representation. What I'm asking of you, gentle reader, is to go to your favorite bar, pub, small concert room, etc. Sit at the bar and say, "you know who would be great here: The Phantom Limbs." Then proudly stand on the bar and zumba your way into their hearts. Or, on second thought, just give them a copy of our CD(s) and our contact info ( We want to play at your joint, it just sounds better if the request comes from you and not us, else we appear as the island smoke monsters we truly are. 

So I offer you this: you book the gig, we give you a manager's rate (20%-40% depending on our travel expenses to get there and how much our tab is, which is perennially nearly as high as our pay a la Blues Brothers). 

To give you an idea, we've been desperately trying to book shows in Annapolis (Stan and Joes, Armadillos, etc.), D.C. (The Rock and Roll Hotel, The Black Cat, etc.), and Philly (Johnny Brendas, etc.), but I don't care where you are. You book it, we'll play it. 

Now, let's move on, shall we? It's my month to host the Annapolis Dinner Club ... I know, punk rock as all bloody fuck, right? I'm thinking about doing some winter tailgaiting dishes with some cheap Baltimore based beer to celebrate the Ravens playoff berth. One of the flavors of wings I'll be doing is actually Randolph's recipe. I should say, however, that Randolph never gives exact measurements to any of the recipes he gives me. I get the feeling that he's one eyeballin' mahfucker. So, without further ado, here's the recipe sent via text message to me by our drummer Randolph for his "Ravens Wings." Ironically he's a Jets fan who works at a Redskins bar.


Sautee some shallots in butter.

Throw some blueberries, grape jelly, brown sugar and honey in there.

Thats your sauce. You know the rest. 

(Postscript - though no measurements are included, I'm guessing 3 shallots, one package of frozen blueberries, 2 tablespoons of grape jelly, 1 tablespoon of brown sugar, and honey to taste. I should also note that the best way to cook wings are in a pot with 4 inches of 350 degree peanut oil for about 13 minutes or until they turn golden brown. Then toss in the sauce.)

Cheers! And Happy New Year!



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