A fledgling Buddhist, an Upper-East-Sider-Gone-Rogue, and the sensitive son of a sitcom legend coalesce to form Grand Cousin. Robby, the Buddhist, plays a bass, Evan, the Upper-East-Sider, plays a drum, and Henry, the sensitive one, sings and plays a guitar. They met at Wesleyan University where they still go to class sometimes.
Henry writes songs about his feelings because he’s “weak” and “scared of life,” he says. Henry’s songs come from a place of insecurity, euphoria, anxiety and nostalgia. His melodies and lyrics aim to express the troubling emotional outlook that guides his life of resistance to change and yearning for control of the present and future.
Robby and Evan help Henry with his problems. Robby’s unassuming and ear-thirst-quenching-bass-playing meshes perfectly with Henry’s voice and guitar, like when you connect to really good Wi-Fi in a public place when you weren’t expecting it. Beneath that #trill internet reception simile is Evan’s steadfast and succinct drumming. He brings a groove to Henry and Robby’s weirdness that is tight and aggressive like a really tight knot. They provide a foundation of rhythm and resolution that rounds out the Grand Cousin sound.
Learn to “Hate People,” put a “Camera” in someone’s room, breathe in “Oxygen,” “Take” her “Out,” and feel that “Constant Improvement,” all with your friends at Grand Cousin.
Nowadays, we can all know what everyone is doing all the time. If we want to. And we want to. We really want to. Solitude is obsolete. But, when there is so little privacy, does the privacy that's left gain or lose value? And without privacy what happens to intimacy?...