The Denim Emperor

Behold! A legend in the making. The Denim Emperor comes seething with a lust for bouncy riffs, hardcore dance grooves, and psychedelic sleaze.  Clad with the Canadian tuxedo of his ancestors,  as you read this, The Denim Emperor is lying on his couch drinking a reisling his bass player left in the fridge. He contemplates his decision whether to continue to play the drums as his hands are caked in blisters. He dictates this to his biographer and producer and label stooge Punished Steve and moans over his troubles in explaining his “Lane Theory,” a revolutionary concept in band arrangement. 

He continues the diatribe, wondering why they have not made a decent Wuthering Heights movie and questions Emily Bronte’s ability to write good prose. He looks down at the floor noticing the large shag rug is indeed two identical smaller shag rugs. Disturbed by this new reality he questions his once familiar environment and whether he has the motivation to sit up and leave.    

The Denim Emperor has done nothing and is nothing, but he is something you should know about.

He spent his adolescence in Burbank, CA most known for its teeming exports of nepotism and opportunity.

During his stay in the county of recognizable last names, he defeated Finneas O'Connell’s band The Slightlys in a battle of the bands twice, saw the inside of Dove Cameron’s apartment thrice, and blew off teaching ableton to Phoebe Bridgers once. 

Abandoning his bourgeois riff rock roots he fled to Ventura, California communing with the local Beefers alongside his closest comrade Admiral Jim Nelson and his longest friend Jonny Walker.

The Denim Emperor stands as a god among the twelve people he socializes with largely because of his talent for orchestration. His aggressive take no prisoners musical style counters the sensual tones of his friendly rival Drfun and excites his frequent collaborators. He would be remiss if he did not mention the Simi Valleites Tony, Kolten, Kanan, and Nik that guided him to the promised land of beefers and beefdom.  He scolds his biographer as the writer's suggestions lean on a heavy bias toward his own relationship with the Emperor.  

The hour is late and remaining wine has thickened forming a residue in the bottom of the glass. Mrs. The Denim Emperor summons the funk lord to the bed chamber. He must continue his craft for one more day. 

He would not like this bio. But he will never know what it says. He doesn't care to read it. 

Instagram /