After publishing this post yesterday -- which contains a map constructed by music critic Paul Lamere, who compiled information from the popular music-streaming service Spotify to determine each state's favorite musical act -- we got to thinking, and it seems to us that a map of the least popular artists by state is of equal import.
Dutifully, we got the RFT Music Department of Scientifc Study on the case immediately.
Research technically began almost ten years ago, when a younger me first heard "Crazy Bitch" by Anaheim, California's Buckcherry on the radio and immediately jumped out of my speeding car on the highway just to make the pain stop. This experience provided a solid foundation of institutional, experiential knowledge of the matter from the outset, leading my team and I to believe we were already close.
With this hypothesis formed, we approached nearby Washington University's research department, providing them with copies of Buckcherry's Time Bomb, 15, Black Butterfly, All Night Long and the band's most recent effort, 2013's Confessions. Wash U's researchers then flew in lab mice from each of the fifty states and played the albums for them, in a controlled environment. The results were telling -- 95% of the rodents subsequently ran head-first into the walls of their own cages, rendering themselves unconscious. The remaining 5% somehow got a lot of shitty tattoos and developed a fondness for date rape, as well as a severe addiction to cocaine.
Intrigued by these findings, we then decided to mail copies of the CDs to interested scientists stationed in each individual state, and headed to the post office located just down the way from RFT Music International Headquarters in the Delmar Loop. Strangely, as soon as we started getting close, the adjacent statue of Chuck Berry -- whose name serves as the basis for the spoonerism that is "Buckcherry" -- began glowing red-hot. Its scorching temperature could be felt from across the street, and the closer we got, the more volatile it became. The danger came to a terrifying head when the statue suddenly and angrily removed its bronze penis from its statue-pants and began firing lasers at us, obliterating all of the CDs we had in our hands except for Confessions. We beat a hasty retreat, but logged fastidious notes about the encounter in order to bolster our research. Soon after, we were kicked out of the post office by an angry postal worker, after being told that it is illegal to send hazardous materials through the mail.
These developments were compelling, but we needed more....
Continue to page two.
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