Deleted Scenes :: "The Days of Adderall"
It was in the winter of my freshman year of college that I saw the broad impact that phamacutical-grade amphetamines were making on my generation. After a night spent cloistered in my dorm having one of those conversations that college freshman so frequently have about nothing and everything, I arrived at breakfast an exhausted and unprepared wreck. It was exam week and I had spent the night not studying, rather predictably, in self-sabotage mode. Over runny eggs and weak small talk I glanced at my table-mate's nose where one nostril, like a pencil sharpener, was covered in the faintest ring of blue powder. This was Adderall, crushed up and divorced from its time-release function, mainlined into the bloodstream. The blue-nosed girl was unembarrassed, bushy-tailed even, and I was tired and unsurprised. This was the new face of focus. These are "The Days of Adderall" according to the glittering, swimming pop of DC's Deleted Scenes. Rooted in a harp loop, the band crafts a hymn for a generation of kids who haven't slept, a generation of kids who never needed to find hard drugs; they were prescribed by a licensed professional. Deleted Scenes root this contradiction in a bass heavy chorus, "I've got a logical illusion", repeated over and over, an anti-mantra for the children of the 1980s who took all the pills, crushed them up and drove until sunrise.
Deleted Scenes plays Music Hall of Williamsburg with the awesome Bear Hands and Fort Lean this Friday night.