I'm pretty sure it was the first time I'd heard my name in a song. I was slinging drinks at York Street Café when I caught the smooth vocals of Chaselounge's Shawny Scott belting out, "Ha
The beat boys begin to tell their own version of the crime with slow and mounting thuds. Bill's word is gospel without temporal restraint; Jay's answer resonates, gruff and reminiscent of kit
"I think I'd like them a lot more if their singer didn't go around claiming they're better than the fucking Beatles!" "Yeah, I know, like, they won a CEA, but who cares? I mean, it's Cinci
All right, so I must say I was slightly disappointed when she showed up sporting neither a see-through unitard, nor a boa constrictor. And her demeanor didn't seem to suggest that she would feel
"We're the Turnbull ACs," jokes the one-man acoustic act, as he shifts his paperboy hat and toes the microphone stand back to its original position. "This next song is called 'Pretty Girls Do