IMPOSSIBLISTS/CONTRARIANS

NO GENRE, NO HELP, NO RULES
SUFI HEADBANGERS.
A BENZENE LOTION RASH.
THE PERPETUAL WAR PARTY BAND…

In every practice space across the world truly awful bands are rehearsing their shitty music, but that will NEVER be us; we don’t rehearse.

On Music and Table Manners
Indian Jewelry’s voice covers a wide range, from a wheezy giggle of delight to a loud “light tenor” call, or “demoniacal” scream; but attempts to claim it for anything approximating to a language have so far scarcely been justified.

For years the writer has been associated with Indian Jewelry. Shortly after their arrival, they were the chief guest of a luncheon party. They conducted themselves, until the arrival of the dessert, with the greatest propriety, touching no food with their hands, using table utensils and drinking out of a glass. When, however, at the end of the meal a large bowl of cherries appeared, Indian Jewelry could no longer contain themselves, and giving up their party manners for those of the wild, screamed with pleasure and plunged both hands into the fruit. The humans present laughed. But Indian Jewelry, who up to that moment had participated in the general merriment, did not join them. Instead they covered their faces with one hand, painfully embarassed by a sense of having committed a “social error.” This behavior on the part of Indian Jewelry refutes the assertions of those who believe a sense of shame is limited to humans.

REEKERS OF HAVOC.
HAVERS OF REEK.
RIPE FRIENDS.
FIT AND TAN FIENDS.

ABOUT whom it has been said:

“Indian Jewelry … seem to permanently inhabit a sensual, raw netherworld where curls of smoke drift before your eyes. While not exactly goth, their sound is dark and sort of organically industrial, a soft, ritualistic dronecore conjured from yawning electronic noise, tumbleweed guitar, and disco beats. It’s a growling, prowling, synthetic powwow stomp, glamorous in every sense of the word, but you won’t need a sage or a sigil to figure it out. This is tantric, orgasmic, blood-warming, bone-rattling music, and I’d give my firstborn to join their cult.”
Liz Armstrong, Chicago Reader, 2006.