P. EVERETT— We’re talking about the tuney blues of PETER EVERETT MCPARTLAND, sanguine sonic craftsman and wry crooner of hot truths. Over many moons and in many bedrooms, Peter lived and felt, read and wrote, clicking “record” and sculpting sound into digitized time, rocking, and sometimes rolling the I Ching, divining production from the 10,000 year-old, gravelly-voiced man in his young man’s body. That old man finds he’s feeling funny on his insides because perhaps he over served himself from the charcuterie plate. But in fact it’s some unnamable beast of a feeling that’s confused, angry, and making him late. His prescription is getting worse, there are coffee stains on his teeth, he’s about to take a walk around the block to blaze a cig... Emotionally and chemically fertilized, songs spring forth from his head, fully grown and armed, with a shout! 

In 2015, P. Everett crystallized, ushering forth the Fantasies EP and the Saints of Disaster. The music is sowed with dreams and rituals, honest love and convivial pleasure, bafflement and struggle, sung in a bent lexicon that includes ghosts, moons, broken ladders, divers, itches, spilloff, constellations, a Jabberwocky, and one good eye. Though long gestated, these tunes were born svelte and waste no time. They are raised up in hairy guitar riffs packed taut with guts, their control panels' one knob turned hard up. They are percussed by klangs, plinks, swopes, and dial up modem burps that climax in yawps and howls, only to be cushioned by a gentle melody or singsong refrain. These recordings contain multitudes: maximalist textures with deep roots. None of which could sprout without the indispensable BAND, sacred vessel of rock. This is P. EVERETT, the humans on record , the crypto shredders who summon cacophony and muster zen-like calm, breathing life into these songs on stage, before your eyes.

To peel notes out of the damp, black silence, Peter has consorted with valued musical agents, his buddies, mannish boys in paint stained jeans, smokers all, guitar wielding celebrants who swell with the siren song. Ecce: Gran Batterista ARTURO KAPP keeping time like the clock, man’s cruelest tool, the little red guy on your left shoulder whipping at the skins with veiny fervor. If drums are the heartbeat, bass is the brain. The low frequencies are tended to by that printer’s devil SHAWN P. CARNEY , for whom plectrum and bow are rake and hoe. The scrapes, squeals, and slidey sweet things are JIM MELLISH fumigating an electric 6-string. That crinkly, pixelated banjo is the sound made by BRUNO SMITH sharpening his hound claws on a new age health crystal... And the voice, lead singer/shredder P McP, Resident Dino Beefheart Kerflufflenovich, belting, booming, woozing, gesticulating like a roomful of grandpapas high on wine.

-Alex Spoto 2015