Ass Ponys

Last Night It Snowed

The band was skewed and morbid but they had a laugh ‘at shred distress. In a way their songs were about love in humid summers, bodies rubbing up against each other by their hunchbacks, growths, and flippers, unsupervised children playing by a pond by a superfund, teenage couples swearing by the pain they share, loners finding solace in unsteady salaries, poetry for a stele’s worth of regret, the part that a belief system will not let go of control of, and the slowed collision hiding in an insect chorus. Lots of death, en d’autre mots, delivered with a finger tapping on a temple in an intimation and a guffaw at hospitalized body gas.

It is a place of native aftermath that homes a divine army with a 16th century Dutch business point of view. The Ponys ruled the regional music scene from the late ’80s til they called it in this five-year period. They toured and also stayed around the ol’ homestead with folk art mounted to the fence. They had a prescient singer-songwriter in Chuck Cleaver who fucking died tragically* in Wussy. Either their bassist was always smoking or his bass neck was. The drummer was a monster in the best way, pro chops with great feel. They had two different lead guitarists, both could have busked an arrondissement. They must have got a few concessions from the major label — after they were terminated in the distressing corporate sense the band was able to continue under their own name. For the duration of a Ponys’ song, let us eat the rare ambrosia of corporate largesse.


* metaphorically