Incidentally, in 2006 there was a mass exodus from the state of Michigan. The reasons are unclear, though some reports suggest the migration was fear-based. A result of false-flag terror alerts purported by the government and other Zionist media conglomerates warning that Detroit would soon be captured and enslaved by Canadian Muslims if Michiganders didn't start using more credit cards, right now!

Music, as a whole, was prohibited by homeland security mandate. This was serious stuff. Desperate times. Innocents like drummer Jeff Gensterblum and guitarist/balladeer Sean Hoen were befuddled, slowly roaming the Appalachian trails in search of a new home. These musicians had once enjoyed worldwide success in bands like Small Brown Bike, The Holy Fire, and Thoughts of Ionesco; but in Michigan, 2006 was no time for the arts. There was upheaval, a rationing of food and fuel, a lot of Republicans, stuff like that. Hoen and Gensterblum lived nomadically, in the foothills.

To their fortune, bassist and visual artist Chadwick Whitehead had long since escaped the impending perils of the state of Michigan. He lured the two bohemians to a Brooklyn warehouse and explained that rock n' roll was not dead. Maybe in Michigan, but not here in the dirty apple.

The drummer and guitarist/balladeer were weary: sores blistering their feet, having almost forgotten what music was after living on bark, dandelions, and other things that require a fully functioning appendix in order to digest. Was it possible? That the earth was still in need of a working band? That the new world order had not yet extinguished the human spirit and effectively replaced creative sound with midi-sequenced loops provided by the Federal Reserve Creative Control Dept? Suite 456? Act 10067.666?

Anyway, they began rehearsing. Soon more Michiganders trudged across the Pennsylvania Mountains, lead by the sound of these neo-frontiersman. Soon New York in general began to laud the nascent, savant-like genius of this strange band. Theirs was a sound of political and sexual revolution. 2008-style. Their songs were absurdly topical: missives about malfunctioning prophylactics, sex with mannequins, pedophiliac preachers, and the mysteries of the human condition.

They were famous before they even chose a name. Then the heavens chose one for them: YOUR SKULL MY CLOSET.

Whose skull in the closet? That's the wrong question. The right question is: Whose skull isn't in the closet? Certainly yours is, that has been established. And the entire Bush family too: we got 'em skinned, their bones polished. Not too mention David Rockefeller and his entire inbred clan. Oh, and George Clooney. They're all in there. Come into the closet, it's a party. You don't even need clothes. Just your shiny bones. Perk up. Rock n' Roll is still alive.

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In an endless wave of useless digital ephemera and poppy over produced cliché bands, Clinical Trials stand out for what they are: Powerful, hungry, dangerous, and above all else, true."

- You're Beautiful, New York / July 2011

"...like Elastica with extra vitriol and a dash of grandeur." - MTV Music Blog


Clinical Trials is Somer Bingham (guitars, vocals, snarky comments) and Caryn Havlik (kit crushing, metal pipe banging, team morale building). They like puppies, ice cream, blast beats and science.

Clinical Trials' latest effort, "Bleed Me" is a dark detour into the fringe regions of rock music. Challenging and balls-out, these new creations have been birthed bloody and wailing, fueled by punk, tinged with sexuality, yet still dangerously charming. From the first explosion of brass coupled with pummeling tom-heavy beats on "Whip It," to the deceptively poppy "American Girl," where dark synth textures bear counterweight to a danceable soca beat, "Bleed Me" is the most menacing type of thrill ride.

Bass-heavy, slow-driving verses give way to a wall of grunge guitars ("Sweet Machine"); hauntingly simple, nursery rhyme-like melodies dissipate into echoes of static and dying feedback ("White Fence"); nihilstic punk shouts soar over surf rock drums ("Animal"). The album oozes an intoxicating dysphoria. It breeds in a world of angst. It might leave you with a sense of nostalgic depression, or a reckless desire for self-destruction, perhaps even a chaotic urge to go out and smash little bunnies.


"Clinical Trials' upbeat, electro-infused songs ask of desires to be granted while darker, intense tracks meets your mind in the place where those desires go astray, keeping a lifeboat in tow. Their music pays homage to their grunge and riot rock predecessors: from a fiery, young Joan Jett and the bravery to bare it in the vein of Nirvana and PJ Harvey - they thankfully take it a step further with confidence to show us the refreshing evolution of where those pioneers have brought us now.

Don't be surprised if you hear Clinical Trials in your Pandora stations for Autolux, Warpaint, and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. It's good company to be in and they prove deserving of your attention."

- Just Another Music Blog / January 2011



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