Creativity is a jail, it’s a lie, it’s a brief episode of agency in a world so prefabricated and ordained that delusion is the default state of being. Everybody thinks that they’re the exception to the rule but everybody is the rule and that’s the trick that’s where the whole thing falls apart and that’s where The Chemical Spray comes in. It was another bullshit Tuesday night at the Silvertone Tavern. The world outside was a blur of wind and rain and we’d just carved off another 45 minute set of noise art that had left the audience in a predictable state of numbed silence. The show was over, I was already off stage and huddling with Jo by the bar, Jordyn was packing their guitar into its case, and Alice was signing the cleavage of an ardent fan who had a bangs scenario that defied all natural laws. Parker had one more riff to lay down, though. One more thing to say. “Look at all you fucking robots,” she screamed into the microphone, “What are you even doing here tonight? We just gave you a gift, we just scrubbed your useless fucking brains from all that normality shit that’s been building up over the years. All that fucking drudgery, all that shit... and what do you got, you fucking robots? Standing there with your fucking beer waiting for some twee indie rocker to take the stage. Screw you all. We’re The Chemical fucking Spray.” Parker raised her fist above her head in a salute to power and solidarity with the non robots. Jo and I raised a fist each from the bar. Jordyn snapped shut the clasps on their guitar case and stood up. Alice was already making out with the girl with gravity-defying bangs. A skinny old guy in a red and black checked flannel shirt and a battered trucker cap who was sitting by himself at a table over by the wall let out a loud whoop of approval and yelled, “Fuckin’ A, sister,” then pumped his fist in the air, lurched sideways out of his chair and onto the floor. | image by @okee.dokee