Since 2004, Alex Machine has been a-creepin' and a-stompin' forward with his own XXX brand of garage poison, delivering and spreading dangerously unhealthy doses of irradiated rocknroll to psychotic mutants anywhere who may have an ear for the strange, cold, and lonely... It's been rumored that he was originally given life in a basement in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania's gloomy alcohol-drenched South Side (though he currently resides in hellfire and heat somewhere in Southern California). The story goes that after the band Dead Ringers plain rolled over and died, the slimy tentacles that remained grew from that carcass in an oily black mass to become the "one man band" you hear today. Who is Alex Machine? He's a wacked out and pretty much undead singer, songwriter and all-around shitkicker: yeah, a real cowboy son of a bastard that brings it all together and hammers the final nail of your coffin in tight. Just listen to him banging the hell out of that raggedy-ass guitar jacked into some old stompboxes freshly exhumed from the grave; festering beats out of a primitive drumkit most people wouldn't touch for the second skin of cobwebs over it; or plucking notes from a greasy violin bass's dirty carcass... and adding enough weird-0 moog and theremin to the mix to choke a wild stampede of wanna-be's dead in their tracks... recording his favorite nightmares and out-of-control emotions in some unearthly studio in that big desert he so fondly howls about. You might ask, what does all this add up to? Alex Machine has secured his space outside the musical trend bubble, easily removed himself from the average 'band' and exhibits the kind of sincerity and DIY ethics that deserves praise but is seldom received. That's okay with him, though. He'll be rottin' and rollin' long after whatever is hip now is dead then and gone round again.