Life in a Blender screenshot from YouTube
That's my friend Ken Meyer pounding on the drums back there. Ken rocks, and so does this band. Go see 'em. Here's the details from an email blast from Don Rauf, the singer and songwriter:
"Trying to understand the waves of mass hysteria sweeping the city? Allow me to explain: Life in a Blender will be playing the cozy confines of Moscow57 at 168 1/2 Delancey Street on Friday, October 17, at 7 pm ish. until 8:30 pm-ish. Donation requested. We were due to play the new Living Room this night but their opening is slightly delayed. Ellen Kaye, one of owners of Moscow57, is from the family who owned The Russian Tea Room from 1947-1996, and the venue has some of that vibe. We are thankful she could book us under such short notice. Come join Life in a Blender for a juicy set. We are also playing the NY Wine & Food Festival on Sunday, Oct. 19 as part of Meatopia: BBQ NYC."
Don then recounts what critics have said about the band:
“I’ve worn satin undergarments that are more abrasive than Don’s voice. It’s as if the bedspread of my brain is having its wrinkles smoothed by a foreign man-nanny who will probably kill again.”
—Tarr Tusstabarr, ectomorph, Submelodic Energy Magazine
“If you want to be crammed into an airtight little room, ceiling to floor, with a sweaty balls-to-the-wall, sonic blast to the face, Blender delivers. You’ll need to wear a full body condom to their show, unless you want to give birth to the future mutant baby of rock n’ roll.”
—Roger Christgau, no relation to anyone living or dead.
“When caught in an avalanche, you have to make a pocket of air around your head to breathe. I didn’t do that when I saw LIAB and now look at me. No, don’t look at me…. I look horrible. ”
— David Ploo, seven-time champion curler who suffered massive brain damage in a curling melee in 1994.
“They’re the kind of sexual crud that clumps to the bottom of the litter box of love. Guitar necks snapping and the smell of boiled leather. If I wasn’t born a fool, I might have been smart enough to resist their spell. But like a cattail, my fuzzy brown finger of a head puffed up, split open and sprayed its seed to the sky. I swayed back in their wind, a slim reed, dipping into the mud.”
—Bledsoe Twaddle, American Warrior, 2001