Words by Sean Moeller, Illustration by Johnnie Cluney, Recording engineered by Shawn Biggs at Studio Paradiso, San Francisco, California
The 17-year-old world that the five members of The Orwells inhabit is the one that we'd go back to, if the option were put to us. It seems like there's no shortage of underage drinking going on. There's falling down and stumbling, but few consequences and a considerable number of conquests - so many, in fact, that it's as if the consequences didn't even exist. These are the hedonistic and skuzzy glory days that Bruce Springsteen only talks about, with those classy, nostalgic nods.
His are those that will pass us by "in the wink of a young girl's eye," and the glory days that the Orwells are referring to are those that they're living right at this very moment and they're fantastic. They're like nothing that you'd believe. Things get explicit and things get sloppy. It all sounds like this is the way to grow up, even if it means that you're going to be a little warped when you do - thinking that it might always be this easy with the easy girls, or that you'd really want it to be this easy with those kinds of girls. For now, it's amazing. There are hands getting thrown into pants and up shirts and skirts. There are hands full of ass and the sun's not setting on any of this.
It's just going to keep right on shining and The Orwells appreciate how bonkers it all seems. The songs that they write are short and bashing. They hinge on the events and the actions that highlight a banner Friday or Saturday night without supervision or any meddling from the police. The band, from a northern suburb of Chicago, has already perfected the tough to perfect art of mixing youthful boasts with genuinely appreciable emotion. We don't think of them as dirt balls or brats. We hear them as heroes, of some kind. We're just not sure which kind. These are glorious anthems of focused testosterone and sexual tension and still they are crafted with incredible poise and an energy that makes you feel like the night's going to blow the fuck up, all over all of us. We wouldn't be upset. We'd just get a towel and clean it all up, hoping that they could do it again.
The Orwells Official Site
Autumn Tone Records