Oxes.

OXES. MAY I DIVULGE? Eh-hmmm ... in one swath these mother-'fers take the stage and make udder mockery of any ambitionist that ever advanced upon said arena. Baltimore, a town disputed as a poor man's New York. Edgar Allen Poe, John Waters, natty-bo beer, a town that has spawned the likes and three characters that make up the creative anomaly/musical mockery/erotic embassy of Oxes.

It is feeble to describe Oxes as "baaad!" or "kick-ass," and any other simple-fated adjectives exhausted in music journalism. All need not apply. Their guitars were made by a volcano. A morn and a dad created the drummer. The only thing that comes to mind while listening to their music is the image of someone getting swatted in the face by a hornet's nest.

Live, they are--I don't know. They wear nightgowns on stage (at least this time around). Two guitars made by volcanoes attached to humans named Nat and Marc, standing on pedestals. Visual aids for the audience. The drummer, aptly named Chris, smiles his way through very mean music. At times Chris will play what can only be described as visual percussion. Don't confuse this with air drumming. Oxes play their stunts perfectly, and beyond. The beyond part is observing the drummer keeping the beat while mocking himself playing the beat.

Instead of numbskulling through the motions of already complicated songs, Oxes taunt the audience with several on- and off-stage stunts, as do only affluent practitioners of gourmet standards have the abilities to add spice to their stuff. This "spice" can also be referred to as "crotch." These crotch rockers are so crafty, they have only one other choice: multiply craft by infinity: There is math rock and there is the exponential dare. Oxes exponentially go beyond the stage of noodling like they are socially inept jocks. The volcanic guitars (black and silver) have remote control connectors connected to the guitars so their pilots can roam around the audience in their nightgowns playing cat and mouse games with each other while ignoring the audience. Note: drummer applies a marching one-man band style drum kit, a perfect compliment to the roaming and ranting guitarists. Regardless, they invade your space. Oxes also speak witty words in-between songs. The audience chants, "Oxxx-es! Oxxx-es!," stoutly obstructed by the band's retort: "We know who we are."

It's fucked up; they are rockers mocking rock. Then there is the filmmaking side of Oxes. Yes, they make movies ... home movies. The funniest home movies. Funnier than the movies than certain farts in the skateboard world are making right now. Fuck-you, split-your-sides movies. If you only knew how they were made, your stupid ass would have never invested in that 50-thousand-dollar camera with the big fish. Pardon me, Oxes, for pitting the above accomplishments against lesser beings in tiffs world. Only fine spices, massage, and dodgeball can compare and further inspire these maximalist feats. My hat is off and I bow to the bull that has beaten the matador without a drop of blood.