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‘Moron’ used to be a popular word amongst psychologists, so that if your state was moronic it meant you were mildly retarded despite your good looks, and that when it came to your mind, you were actually ten despite those six years spent in college. But now, in this great age of tact, moron is a word no longer in scientific use because it’s considered offensive. The truth is, however, that ‘moron’ has met silence simply because it’s no longer needed–most morons are either locked away in institutions or kept at bay by television, so why bother labeling them?

Yet there remains on the fringes self-proclaimed militant morons caught up in a fight against complacency. They might threaten a bite or two, but their primary weapon of choice is music–twisted words set amidst the intricate chords and riffs of competent musicians. In other words, there is a band out there tinkering with guitars, pencils and digital multi-track recorders, all in preparation for an insider’s exhibition. They call themselves the Moron Parade.

Despite being a band that, evidently, no one cares to know, the Moron Parade has written a great amount of music, most of it an oddly sophisticated style of self-mockery and cultural mimicry. To spend a few days listening to the two-inch-thick set of discs they’ve recorded is to be schooled in the art of modern intuitive irony, not to mention the art of modern loving. There is, for instance, an impertinent fascination with anal sex, as with "Butterfly," a steel guitar type of song that documents the heady desire for a girl’s tattooed rectum. There are bathtub fantasies with celebrities such as Jennifer Love Hewitt and songs about self-arousal, as in the lyrics, "I’m gonna turn the lights down low and show me how it’s done/ gonna give me kisses where I can." And there is a ridiculous pseudo-rap song about a crack fiend living on a stolen houseboat, the words of which were written by Stephen Evins, the band’s goggle-eyed poet and adjutant trumpeter.

"But that’s the extreme of the extreme," says Matt Martin, "where it’s so backwards and it’s presented so forwards that it’s not even supposed to be taken literally."

He then adds that those songs come from a different era, which is peculiar because most were written in the past two years. But the comment aptly describes the band’s obsessive interest in progression, its rapid development from initial experiments with a four-track to recent complex recordings. And it must be noted that this has taken place during a period of time in which their bassist quit and half the band moved temporarily to Boston only to find outrageous rent, a depressed economy and a directionless punk scene. From this emerges a different kind of demand–while it seems unlikely that they’ll quit writing songs verging on the ludicrous, there is now the addition of lyrics such as, "So hey there all you terrorists/ we know that America is a fucked up place/ but it’s not your job to tell us that/ that’s why we have hardcore bands."

Daryl Waits wrote the words, and the song, "president hardcoreband," is found on their independently released album Receiver.

"I hope the jesting and the sincerity both come through, because I think the songs on Receiver reflect a more mature style," says Martin, distinguishing these songs from those found on older bootlegs. "We didn’t set out to make an album that catches our ‘live jamming sound.’ It’s just several ideas from several different musicians put together."

Actually, at this point the band consists of only three guitarists–Martin, Waits and Adam King. But all are skilled with bass, drums and keys, so live situations involve regular shifts, with the songwriter usually taking up the guitar and lead. On stage, such acrobatics might pass as halting, but in songwriting the result is dynamic fluidity. It’s difficult, for instance, not to mention Frank Zappa or even the fluty sound of Jethro Tull when speaking of Waits’ screaming songs. Whereas Martin tends toward subtler compositions with lyrics that admit to confusion, the same is true of King, only his songs are built in the same way that a storm gathers on an autumn afternoon, directing the mind towards contemplation. His lyrics are smart, as with "Brain Atoms," in which he sings, "Asking over and over again/what am I doing/how can I become greater than myself?"

It’s a progressive question, one that thankfully admits to a kind of stupidity, because every moron knows that only assholes claim to know everything.

the Rocky Mountain Bullhorn, August 2002 in Print and Online