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The Chub zygote hopped the petri dish lip in 1997, powered by the pants ants and adventure semi-associated with Zappa's concept of the "damaged musician" -- meaning, we were a bit disillusioned with pop musics and wanted to bend the conventional ear a bit. Prior to combining, we rubbed shoulders independently with the likes of Primus, Metallica, Fungo Mungo and Cherry Poppin Daddies, and played in bands of our own that pushed the perimeters and spiked the punch. From those associations, we've learned plenty and milked much. Chub's sprung as a result of throwing what we like into a blender -- six brains' worth of anti-matter -- and recording the sound of the goop at its various stages of attraction toward the kitchen walls. We strive to be musical cookie batter -- raw and a bit questionable while somewhat palatable. Ding-Dong Rock, in the parlance of the times. So, your ears will most likely sense various influences, all of which we're proud to admit to: Beck, Bowie, Primus, Soul Coughing, The Police, Ozomatli, Talking Heads, They Might Be Giants, Prince, Captain Beefheart, George Clinton and P-Funk, and all kinds of global types. We're big on rhythm and percussion and ass shaking and sweating and collaging and convulsing and not giving a shit and tolerance and cutting loose and sex and Mac-n-Cheese and goofer. The stage is our circus ring and our padded cell. We like to assume the position that only ineffective disguises can afford on a show-by-show basis. We appreciate the b'haysoos out of our fans and their livers. We've played pretty much everywhere in San Francisco -- Slim's to Bottom of the Hill to Hotel Utah -- and colleges and clubs throughout Northern California. We cruise in our band limo about once every four years, and in our band jet about once a year, along with a hundred or so people who apparently don't know it's our band jet. And admittedly, we would notatall mind gracing the cover of Rolling Stone someday, make some faces, salute the President, ape it up to the best of our primal know-how. The Thing is, we're more interested in having a good time with each other and our fans than we are in the pursuit of deification, by a long shot. If Rolling Stone sees fit to expose that kind of approach to Kodak and Bic, so much the better. In the meantime, we put it all together in a way that at least makes sense to us, and ideally to a chunk of everyone else.
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