• Official Site
  • Email
  • A Faulty Chromosome is a cluttered toy-chest of spazzy tremolo, paddy-cake hand-claps, fuzzy 8-bit blips, water-damaged Mister Rogers records, mashed casio chords, drum machine'd beats, and fond memories. Indie-slop / Shoegaze-bop / Nowave-pop / Bossanova-nova / Non-patronizing children's music for all-ages.

    For neophobes and/or the musically nescient, they (sort of) sound like: The Feelies + New Order + Half Japanese + My Bloody Valentine + The Shaggs + Arthur Russell + Belle & Sebastian + Suicide (sort of). They are in the headphones of the quiet kid who hides in the library at lunch time drawing pictures in textbook margins.

    Their first album, as an ex-anorexic's six sicks exit,... is being played daily on a college radio station near you, a bunch of websites contain nice things to say about the band (Brooklynvegan, ink19, Dusted, Wired, and many other ones that -- although you may have not heard of them by brand name -- are written by living humans who have opinions just like everyone else), and several songs have even been turned into fan-made, YouTube videos! Hooray!

    But A Faulty Chromosome are no more than semi-retarded kids in their mid-20's so severely disappointed with the world they are stuck in that making joyful music about their frustration is the only way they know how to cope. At worst, joyous noise; at best, a charming mess (i guess?).

A Kodak Disc negative. Photo: Chris Devers. CC: BY-NC-ND

A Faulty Chromosome This is far from a belle epoque

"The thing is, having to use the word art in a sentence mostly just makes my face contort out of pure repulsion (imagine walking down an alley on a hot July afternoon, dumpsters overflowing of fish guts and dirty diapers). Sure, there is a part in the song that says "...assuming we can't hack some sort of semi-respectable art," because I happened to be stuck living in L.A. at the time, no amount of money able to properly convince me that writing lines of sexual innuendos for the GoDaddy.com girl to say on TV's sexiest commercials was something I wanted to help bring into the world, but I could barely even say that line without firmly positioning my tongue in my cheek. I'm just so very wary of all the turgid, turtleneck'd imagery it evokes (not to mention the countless eye-rolls and patronizing head-pats I've received from real artists with real art degrees when looking at the things I made).

So it should make much more sense when I say that this song was inspired mostly by a 4"x6" glossy (taken with an automatic Kodak Disc in 1987 by a suburban Chicago housewife, developed at the Osco drugstore; absolutely unartistic in nearly every way by most artist's terms) at the Fairview Elementary School fun fair of me running around the school with my classmates. I happened to see one of the girls in that picture fifteen years later working at a gas station looking very sad (so sad that I didn't even want to tell her that I knew who she was for fear that she would be embarrassed), but it helped me spend a few enjoyable afternoons daydreaming about all the memories she (and the mole just below her left eye) had unearthed in my cluttered attic-of-a-brain. And thoughts turned into words thrown on top of music and made a song."

  • Everyday objects can become art when they tap us into our collective humanity.
  • Dig this artsong? Tell someone: