Evil Chicken here.
Not a band. Not a plan. Possibly not real.
Just riffs from the deep fryer of the universe.
I once smoked a joint so strong I laid an album.
Southern rock, stoner fuzz, psychedelic doom swamp goo.
Music for lizards in leather jackets and gas station prophets.
New tracks drop when the moon aligns with the bong.
Subscribe or don’t. I already forgot what I was saying.