In the white-hot forge of liberal arts postgraduate ennui, the gypsies have tamed the heedless steel of their raw talent into a blade whose edges are twain: That of purest soul and that of blistering rock. They rule the scorched land atop an alabaster throne, brandishing their flaming dual-edged claymore and cackling like mad imps, and when the black sun of their reign is at its zenith, when the deafening screams of the conquered reach an earth-shaking drone, thereby heralding the coming of a thousand years of woe, only then, as you are torn to shreds by the sonic maelstrom crying forth from their blade, will you catch a glimpse of their unholy power, and of your unquestionable unworthiness to be destroyed by it.
Hailing from Charlottesville, Virginia, the Gypsies have grown from a bar band whose goal it was to get the joint flat-footing, to a regional act who still wants to see you dance. Every member of the Gypsies contributes his or her unique voice both in harmonies and in songwriting, and the result is a rollicking pastiche of bluegrass, rock, and jazz that never fails to entertain.
