Just who does Donavon Frankenreiter think he is? His handle has crowded the aisle of my brain that shelves the name of Flat Duo Jet Dexter Romweber. Suddenly, somewhere in my cerebrum, Romweber’s sickly rockabluesy squawk is sharing Clamato and coconut meat with Frankenreiter and a bunch of vibrant free love types who’ll never experience the ill light and Pabst vomit of a properly soulless rock club. Like sunlight and bare indie skin, Romweber’s pointy lapels were never meant to meet Frankenreiter’s Polynesian shells. Their cross-pollination is confusing and sick; it’s killing my brain like a poisonous mushroom. Can anyone save the indie hard liners from these mellow golden soldiers?

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