this is fiction hit the stores and airwaves in March of 99.

An explosive trio approach, a supple, fearless vocal, a rich sonic palette. Swaths of pristine, "BeachBoys-tight" harmonies are draped over concise, jazz-infected hard rock'n'roll grooves in an evocative and unapolagetic embrace.

"I hate to seem overly Byronic," bob offers, "but this is as close as we get to a message, a charter; musicians should be musketeers, apostles, knights errant, samurai. We are responsible for creating an impervious thing - music can touch you, but you can't touch it. The assertion that the universe spins on an axis of love isn't the official ideological property of Lennon & McCartney, or Hendrix, or Brian Wilson, or whoever. My generation wants a little too, even if we are too sated with blood and guts and fakery and violence and this insipid ironic detachment to admit it.

Whether it's the outraged-guitar symphonics of "Damage", the sardonic space-age blues of "Six Lanes To Nowhere", the breezy R&B of "I Can't Do It Anymore", or the springloaded call-and-response calypso of "Freedom Song", the music of fiction chews up fifty years of pop and spits out future perfect.