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Was it a vibe?
One supposes it could be called that.
An attitude?
Sure.
Laissez-Faire?
Certainly.
But Burnsicle worked.
Gizzy played his guitar without a B-string, Brandon had his bass rig louder than everyone might have liked, Torch had this strange old sparkly swing band drum kit with a trash-picked snare that sounded like he was hitting a corned beef sandwich and Moore wrote lyrics about whatever he wanted.
Mostly they were verses that were angry at the state of the world, or obtuse but fit the rhythm of the music or homages to obscure literary characters.
Burnsicle practiced in a basement of a house that Gizzy rented from his boss at Wagner-Kemp Tool, and drank beer mostly from a settlement Brandon had won from being in an elementary school bus that got hit by a drunk driver, leaving him with a facial scar so small that chickenpox would mock it.
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