Once there was a tiny world hidden somewhere far past the reach of humans and civilization. The people there were made of shapes and colors that floated along in jubilance, exchanging pleasant murmurs as they passed each other on their cartoon-perfect sidewalks. Violence, depression, and pain didn't exist, and if ever a human were to stumble upon the village they would be overcome by all the good. Their cells would vaporize and they would burn neon bright for all time, sucked into the forever-bouncing rhythm of the place.
Then, something changed. Someone, some human, survived the protecting mountain pass and stumbled into the utopia. The townsfolk naively welcomed the human, unaware of the ice that flowed through its veins and shielded it from their warming effects. In fact, the human only got colder as it stayed in the town, feeding on the villagers' fuzzy warmth, sucking it in through a cruel kind of osmosis. By the time the human left, wordlessly, in the frozen stillness of night, the once-beaming residents were gasping desperately for their lost opulence, fighting to recover a melody forever lost. Even the mountain was a gaunt frame of its former grandeur. When it finally collapsed, burying the town forever, the citizens struck one final chord; even as the rocks rained down, their harmony carried on.
Check out "Pickaxe and Shovel" on the band's Myspace. It's rare for keyboard pop to have such soul.
Max Steele and the Party Ice is based out of Brooklyn, and yes, he has fly girls.
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