years ago. band attempted to take over the world. failed. heard they made it as far as nyc. to the bigtime. but they weren't ready, and the bigtime sure wasn't ready for them. now. bloodied and bruised, with broken hand and missing teeth, it returns. IMR, or in medias res, or however you want to say it, spell it, mispronounce it. they don't care. really. just listen. ryan gordon flowers. what a messianic complex sounds like on four-stringed bass guitar, tuned to drop-everything. ash. unfurled singaporian soft-hits-radio-producing rage upon fretboard of obsolete winged mess. andrew lee. roar. broken and beating. stadiumrock guitar pyrotechnic trampled by indie rock gods of yesteryear. steve. playing not on, but through wood, skin, and metal. ashamed at attraction to straight time. hiding out in dark basements for the best part of a year after tour upon tour, few thousand sales to the name, dodging break up rumors both outside and in. rediscovering love of rock n' roll. what it was, what it could still be. noise, melody, and joy - for its own sake. for those waiting to find something left beating in the heart of rock n' roll, something worth dancing to, something worth singing to, something ugly, and yet beautiful... they were never cool. and rock n' roll never really made that much money anyways.