The Bastards of Fate are the corpus callosum connecting the rational lobe of pop to the irrational lobe of the avant-garde. They are the sturdy tether lashing rock’s analog past to its digital future.
Tucked into the mountains of southwest Virginia, Roanoke is a city of shadows and mist. The Bastards of Fate didn’t move there to become famous—they were born there, to grow up obscure. The band’s reputation continues to spread like a well-executed piece of vandalism. A handful of rave reviews here, a successful tour of Europe there, and people are beginning to notice.
The Bastards make music for the 21st century, and possibly—if we make it that far as a species—the 22nd, It’s a cluttered screaming cacophony of connected isolation.