3,000 feet up the side of a dormant volcano in the most remote island chain on Earth a group of outcast musicians have been known to conglomerate on a Tuesday night around a few stringed instruments and more than a few distilled beverages. Though anyone might show up, maybe even someone with talent, the group has basically coagulated into Russll, Steve, Christina, Jonas and Aaron, who play that kind of music that you hear sometimes.
The band took their name from the plethora of dead Jackson Chameleons that litter the streets of their Kula, Maui home. It seems that the micro triceratops love the heat of the pavement, but their molasses-like locomotion is no match for the knobby-tired four wheel drive vehicles that rule the local asphalt.
In 2015, after a year of poking, prodding, and procrastination, Flat Jackson finally completed their first self-titled EP (insert champagne cork-pop here). Making a record is the creative equivalent of giving birth – it’s messy and painful, there’s a lot of crying and swearing, sometimes drugs are necessary, and in the end you get something that you love with all your heart but can frustrate the hell out of you. Conscious decisions were made to leave in the warts and blemishes and imperfections. It’s a botox-free record whose beauty is defined by capturing real performances.
Flat Jackson began life as a bluegrass band, but now it’s…something else. No doubt that rootsy quality comes through, kinda like someone dropped an anvil on Bill Monroe’s foot, but essentially the range of influences have rendered the band genre-less. However you try to categorize the group, the sound is working with both audiences and critics nationwide:
Flat Jackson is by far the best band on the planet, bar none, ever in the history of mankind
– Steve’s Mom