Oh, the Rotations, who could say enough about them? Well, they themselves could say more than enough about themselves, too stoned to remember to pass the joint.  Whether their studio home overlooks the dolphins leaping off the edge of Venice or involves a long, drawn out fight between Scotty and the crazy lady neighbor, anyone (un)fortunate enough to enter, has the (miss) opportunity to become a Rotation. “I am a Rotation” T shirts already have to be handed out like candy to trick-or-treaters' with the first step over the threshold to the most egalitarian band in the world.  The Anti-American Idol, here anyone with no talent can be encouraged to find their inner rock star.

And those with talent… Those with talent keep the world’s best communist band making discs like these.  Call it USSR Communism – it may be a band for the people by the people (wait, isn’t that another beautiful idea that went dictator?), but make no mistake, the Rotations have their elite, with “5 year plan for world domination” Zane as Stalin and “waiting for the ice pick in his brains” Scotty as Trotsky.

With more songs than stars in the galaxy, the band’s discs are a tunneled tribute to every moment of the Rotations’ group brain white hole, endlessly spinning off new songs captured by the black hole of another time and place.  Whether it’s hazy, half forgotten dreams when woken at 2 PM, the ecstasy of love meets sex, rants about a political system of a world only they know too well, or the planning of the day while sitting on the toilet, any loose thought with a mind of its own becomes snared and exposed to the world.  Do we need this?  Maybe a better question is: do the Rotations need this?  Would the band mates be able to function without this constant bulimic purging of too much music digested and mainlined for over ten thousand years, all members’ lifetimes stacked one upon one another?  Do they function now, ex-girlfriends, worried mothers, old landlords, and angry bosses might ask.

Scotty and Zane have out done Mick and Keith.  They’ve broken the limits of how long two egos with very different ids can command a band without resorting to separate private planes and conversations hurried along by personal assistants.  Move over, Glitter Twins, there is no secret about who has grabbed the out-of-control helm, the unmanned steering wheel of today’s rock n roll.

The only thing left for this band the future will find too late, is have a concert.  I demand that you demand an outdoor festival over a long weekend with only one band playing the entire time: The Rotations.  I demand that you demand they take the stage, drummer there or not (most likely not, knowing their attitudes), and play every fucking song they have every written.  Yes, every fucking song from the dawn of their “barely out of the scum waters of teenage-land” noble beginnings.  Each little ditty their ancient, addled brains may profess not to know, but will, once we force them to hear every one of their CDs, sent to us intelligentsia as gifts to celebrate hundreds of obscure Heathen holidays.  This is an open invitation to not BE a Rotation, but to SEE a Rotation.  I demand you demand sky high speakers and free water, sparklers, and nothing but medicinal Mary Jane treats straight from the vending machines.  I demand you demand a holiday of sleeping, eating, shitting, and dancing to the Rotations – make them earn their fan base!  Never has the band taken to the stage.  No chance for groupies to gather, fan boys to fart around, critics to capitalize on the one thing they haven’t yet been able to say:  They suck on stage, too.  No chance for the band to show they are more than a 100 hit wonder; their world tour would take so long, their great children would have to finish it.

The stage is set, boys and girls, so get your guitar slinging asses up there.

And all readers rejoice, every CD they make from now on comes with a complimentary joint.  Oh, what, Zane?  It’s all downloadable music from now on?  Well, then find your own weed, the Rotations are up to speed!