Eat Ya Heart Out Proxima Parada

Women troubles, shit, we've all got 'em. Us, men, are better off having our better half take us to the taxidermist and getting stuffed and mounted in their pretty lil rooms, to show off to their pretty lil friends. It'll be easier for everyone: we'll always be stiff and quiet, and they can talk for hours on end without us getting bored or saying something stupid in response. It's not that we don't try though. Give credit when credit is due. Most honest men give their all. We give our money, time, energy, wisdom, and massive erections, anytime, any place without question and we ask for next to nothing in return. This is, often times, not good enough. So, they dump us, right on our sorry asses, and move right on to the next man as if we never existed, but it doesn't end there! We always come begging for more and more and more and more until, we're dreaming blue, sweating blue, puking blue, shitting blue, and turning blue, to the point where it seems like eating our own heart is the only option we have left. Now, accompany these dreadful feelings with the weeping sounds Myles Wittman makes with his trumpet and we start to get an idea of what type of music Proxima Parada plays.
Myles is not the only one chewing on his heart, he's joined by his bandmates Bryon Bailey, Kevin Middlekauf, Nick Larson, and Andy Olson. Together they share in on the same great woe that destroys even the strongest of men. I saw it all over their faces when they performed with my girlfriend this past weekend. Wait, that came out wrong. My girlfriend and I could see misery pouring out of them when they opened up for the Tumbleweed Wanderers and Tilted Tides at SLO Brew. For you information, Parada should NOT have been the openers. No offense to Tilted Tides, but they were completely blown off the stage by them. They simply could not compete with Parada's emotional and remarkable stage presence.
Bryson's voice was the first intonation that caught my attention. He has some soul in him, this kid. It comes roaring out of his wondrous throat every time he sang one of his original songs. Even if he hasn't had a woman rip out his soul and run it over with her new boyfriend's truck repeatedly till there was nothing left but dust, he sure as hell can sing like it. So can Nick for that matter and they all can play an eclectic range of instruments as well. One moment, Kevin could be working the deep grooves of the bass and the next, plucking a banjo and finally going over to the mandolin to strum away all his pain. Then, they all trade spots and Andy will also come out from behind his kit and sing till the audience is in tears, reminiscing old flings that got away.
Not all of Parada's songs are about break ups and choking on your own heart. They know how to get down and educate as well. For example, they incorporate Latin influences in their music, hence their name. Their rhythm really gets the crowd up and dancing and stomping and break dancing. They also have a song questioning the belief system many, many Americans follow so blindly, written by Nick Larson himself. Some other original songs they have include "Sink or Swim,"Who You Callin'," and my personal favorite, "See These Eyes." Each song shows off this young band's prowess as musicians.
They are very much indeed a very talented band, who's future will bring them much more recognition from the Central Coast as they continue to open up for traveling bands and to do shows of their own. But all this praise comes with a price: women. Yes, they will be swimming in pussy juice in no time, but with that they will end up in an ocean of sorrow. It's inevitable, but that's great news for those just discovering Parada. Why? Because the more they feast on their own hearts, the more soulful songs they will write, the more us men can finally move on to robot women who don't like our money, time, energy, wisdom, or anything else our sorry asses have to offer. Good job fellows, way to get the burdens off our minds and for that we are more than happy to oblige by going to all of your shows.