Irony

Sitting in a bar on the wrong side of town where the breadline is the only line that's not crossed, neon lights making bright shadows through thick cigarette smoke, the setting for the show: The Artists finally appear, dressed in yellow surfer gear the lead vocalist opens his mouth and lets the anger come forth. Screaming rage at the wrongs life has dealt him, the bassist tears at the strings and the drummer bludgeons a rhythem. They create their work with this raw, blunt implement - the lumbering of privelidged youth: for sheltered lives they hold resentment, disinterested in the reality of the truth. White collar anger in a blue collar 'hood.