Boston's weirdest psych rock band took a while to find their sound, but now that it's here we can't get it out of our heads.
There are a handful of sounds that exist in the universe that only bartenders understand. Our ears are trained to pick these things up from just a few feet off to entire rooms away. Say, the tap-slap of a credit card being placed down after a meal, or the clunk-splash of a 16oz glass being knocked over and spilling. And, of course, the unmistakable sploosh-splat of vomit.
Be it Davis Square in Somerville, the wild shoddy badlands of Allston, and even the nooks found around Fenway Park, what you're about to read is a story involving intoxicated buffoonery all conducted at your favorite (or not-so-favorite) local haunts, be it drinking in public outdoors (but just for a photo), allusions to shooting pornography, and even men in ruffled shirts becoming threatened by small children drinking out of coconut shells in close proximity to them.