NAMES: Dapose, Todd Fink, Graham Ulicny, Clark Baechle.

AGE: Old enough to remember when rock bands with drum machines were considered controversial, a musician could pay their rent in Camel Cash, and indie sleaze was just called “going out at night.” Young enough to have gotten the last good song about strippers on the books before the window on that topic closed for good.

FROM: The same city as 311, but don’t hold that against them. (You can if you want, we’d get it.)

OCCUPATION: Synthicide is their business, and business is picking up.

HOBBIES: Rewiring analog synths. Sewing patches onto the crotches of their vintage Diesel jeans. Publicly declining genre labels while secretly gloating that they were ahead of the “dance-punk” revival by at least two years. Nodding politely when people ask about when a teenage Conor Oberst was a member.

LAST BOOK YOU READ: The Culture of Narcissism: American Life in an Age of Diminishing Expectations. Omaha pride, baby! And a Mark Fisher book, probably.

LAST ACCOMPLISHMENT: Getting an entire room of Midwest X-ennials to dance without any major tears, breaks, or trips to urgent care.

QUOTE: “Retro these nutz.”