Last night frequenters of the Launchpad in Albuquerque were treated to a piece of musical prowess needed oh, so badly by the world today. The Great Depression, founded by familiar faces Fernando Moore and Scott Meyers, comprise a sound that revives the lost legacy of anguished rock gods sold deep into the fuzzy cloud of forgotten anthems.
Driving bass-lines set the tone of the Depression’s mood, handled warmly by the hardly-silent Scott Meyers. The technical bass work is easily reminiscent of late 70’s post-punk: insert band name here. Mr. Moore’s spacey, yet melodic guitar adds further depth to the band’s presentation, while his vocals alternate seamlessly between the angst-ridden laments of a non-requited lover and the hollow musings of cynical youth. Percussion duties are covered by an unnamed man wearing glasses who bore a talent that is probably capable of destroying minds everywhere. I’m sorry I did not get your name, creator of rhythms, your performance was stellar. Thumping toms and classic cymbal work seem to be the hallmark of this brash tamer of tempos. This mixture results in something akin to a band named after fascist storm-troopers hell-bent on hereditary manipulation. Fear not: The Great Depression does not appear to hold genetic control as an ulterior motive, though they may try to record you.
Through inflamed voice-boxes, premature intoxication, birthdays, and short sets, The Great Depression will leave you less concerned with wall street, and more so with Great Rock n’ Roll. So make preparations: I’m thinking this slump will last.