So we've been lucky enough to be asked to play live on the Radio and on some Podcasts, and I'll do my best to compile them and their links here:

3/29/09 MPR The Local Show

3/13/09 Off the Record

3/8/09 Minneapoliscast

So, I'll do my best to compile all the review we get here, along with links to the real things. Tada



BABY SUE
His Mischief is the Minnesota-based trio consisting of Jeff Quinn (bass, vocals), Sheridan Fox (guitar, vocals), and Jeff Brown (drums). The tunes on The Perfect Lover have a great deal of personality...and they don't have that generic overprocessed sound that ruins so much modern rock music. These guys record music that is normal enough to be entertaining while having enough odd qualities to make it interesting. What probably stands out most about the tunes on this album are the vocals. Instead of over-rehearsed perfect vocals and layers upon layers of precise harmonies...these guys keep their vocals clean and simple. Using only one vocal or two (occasionally more), they manage to get their point across while retaining a nice live sound. Nice simple modern progressive rock tunes include "Freaks Up Front," "Limp Handshake," "Roman Holiday," and "The What." A nifty upbeat fun experience with a good raw feel. (Rating: 5)

MFR
The Perfect Lover
Grade: A-
If God wanted young men to forever remain frustrated for the rest of their lives, then the Good Lord would never have given musicians garage-rock.

Though the genre has existed through various permutations —and practitioners range from bands as old as ? and the Mysterians and as green-eared as Be Your Own Pet—throughout the decades, there are several constants. Namely, loud, brash guitar-chords, crashing drums, and thumping bass-lines.

His Mischief’s new album, The Perfect Lover, is hardly unique in this regard, as it has all three elements in spades.

But The Perfect Lover also contains that mysterious fourth element that has both flummoxed and elucidated bands present and past, regardless of genre: great songs. Much like an actual perfect lover, His Mischief start slow, then build steadily, to the point where by the time the likes of “Let’s Be Friends,” a White Stripes-esque barn-burner, and “Towering Filth”, a more mid-tempo punk song reminiscent of The Ramones, show up, listeners are effectively like putty in the band’s hands.

And that’s even before the raw power of “Trust or Love” shows up. For the sake of professionalism, it’s best not to describe entirely the, um, heightened effect that The Perfect Lover as a whole has on listeners. Instead, its best to enjoy Lover as one great track after another, and hope that there’s plenty of mischief left to come.

City Pages Gimme Noise
The Perfect Lover is a taut, exquisitely well contained pop record, one meant to be heard in good company, half-drunk on draft Budweiser.

City Pages Record Review
The perfect lover. For each individual those words are likely to conjure a variety images. One might dream of Burt Reynolds tastefully covered in Vaseline, wearing nothing but a Speedo and cowboy boots; another, Jamie Lee Curtis erotically knocking back single serving after single serving of Activia Yogurt. And while we may never know what those words mean to each member of St. Paul's His Mischief (the smart money's on the yogurt), The Perfect Lover encapsulates a dozen tracks that are highly unpredictable and uniquely inconsistent.

Opening with "Freaks Up Front," the band immediately takes a firm grip on a tight guitar lick. Lead singer Sheridan Fox dives in moments later, wailing like a Scandinavian Britt Daniels, slightly slurring the lyrics and tossing in "Oh! Oh! Oh!"s as necessary—it worked for "Howlin'" Pete Almquist of the Hives and it works here, too. The following songs distort any clear direction however, Fox's voice fails to rest on any clear sound, and the bassist Jeff Quinn and drummer Jeff Brown follow suit. Crossing between the overcrowded sound of "Don't Bother" to the deliberate guitar of "All That for a Limp Handshake" creates an immediate divide between the two songs, a pattern that is continued throughout. After "Towering Filth," the album's token grunge track, the band again changes directions as it does its best Ben Folds with "Roman Holiday." And though the song sounds out of place in context, the chorus to "Holiday" is a curious earworm that stands out as one of the album's highlights.

While it's not a deal-breaker, the problem that arises from having no fluidity among the album's tracks is that they tend to chop each other off at the knees. Just as it looks to build some momentum with "Veins," the song's energy disappears with the following "Trust or Love." The Perfect Lover is frustrating at times, but its songs refrain from bleeding into one bland sound, instead creating a distinct contrast with one another. It's unpredictable and inconsistent, but at no point does it fail to sound good. And that's probably what His Mischief had in mind when dreaming of the perfect lover; if you went the route of a greased-up mustache-wrangler, more power to you.

Click it here.

So, over there in our "Members" box, we have a new video for our song "Do You Know Your Neighbors?".  I don't know what to say, we are so psyched.  Our friends Jon Nowak and Bobby Marsden spent a ton of time getting this together and volunteering their time to make this happen.  I hope it provides everyone with three minutes and forty seven seconds of great time killer at work.  and at home. and during class. and during...

So, right now we are taking a break from playing shows so we can finish writing the songs for our next record.  I take a long time to write songs.  Some call me meticulous, others call me anal.  But, soon.  We have nine songs in some stage of development.

We are also still planning on making the jaunt down to Austin in March, and we're just starting to put together a West Coast tour for April.  So if you've got any idears for us or want us to come to your town, let's us know and we can figure something out.

Word

Ah Chicago.  It's our last night, I am sick.  I had a hell of a time getting us a show in Chicago – we don't really know anyone in bands there, and we had to play on a Sunday- but I was extremely excited to finally play there, especially since I had a good number of friends there that I don't get to see nearly enough.  So of course I had to be sick.  But virus be damned.  I holed up in our van covered in layers of mismatched sweatshirts, sweatpants, and sleeping-bags, determined to burn the bug out of me.  Around 9:30 I told myself, this is it, time to go, and I staggered out of the van with both my sweatshirt and jacket hoods pulled up, Redbull in hand.  Right about this time, some friends drove by.  Their conversation in the car went something like this:

Ben   "So, Sofie, here's the bar.  What do you think?"

Sofie "Eh, I don't know.  Looks a little rough – there's a bum right outside the door drinking."

Ben   "Mmmm.  Yeah.  That's Sheridan."

See, there was a sign on the door of the club that said "Absolutely no outside drinks, everyone that enters the bar will be searched".  So I dutifully paced back and forth in front of the bar drinking my drink.  I was being a GOOD bum.

Ronny's is a funny place – one side is a Mexican divebar and the other side is a converted garage that the bands play in.  The sound guy is in a hut with a thatched roof.  It is tropically hot in there.  I loved it.  We played great, Cool Devices and hwy were both awesome bands, and it was fabulous to see everyone.  Plus, my little sauna campaign in the van seemed to have worked.  AND the show got over early since it was a Sunday, so we had time to go out and celebrate.  The Rainbow is a great, chill bar to end your night at – nice peeps, cheap drinks, good music, and I ran into a friend I hadn't seen since we went to high school together.  Small world, but I love it.

Holy shit Indianapolis is big.  For whatever it may lack in height, it more than makes up for in width.  I don't know if we played at one end of Indianapolis proper and we stayed at the other end, but we drove for a good long while before getting to our presidential condo.

When we rolled up at the Melody Inn, we had no idea what to expect.  We were booked on Punk Rock Night, and we had no idea what that meant.  If this was going to be "punk rock" the way the Alamo House is punk rock- which is what I was kind of expecting, given what the neighborhood around the bar was like and that a band called Tremendous Fucking was on the bill- we were going to be in for an interesting night.  Plus, we were not on the bar's calendar.

But all was well, we played to a full bar or people ready to party, hung out with soem old friends, met some new ones, and somehow ended up being some of the youngest people at punk rock night.  Who knew?

ATHENS – Oh Athens. What exactly constitutes a clothing fad? To be a female OU student you apparently need to wear a large droopy shirt of some type, tights, and those mukluk-like boots. And I thought PINK was monotonous. But to each their own. This is of course coming from a guy that brought one pair of pants on a 13 day tour.

The Union is a pretty awesome dive bar. There are two floors, and behind the stage there is such a dilapidated display of poorly hidden paint cans and old broken bar paraphernalia- all draped with plastic tarps of course -that there's a certain shantytown feel about the place. The Sad Bastards, Spider Bags, and Paper Machetes all threw down with us and we ended the night at a house party. Well, Quinn and Brown did - I ended the night wheezing and trying to figure out how to use our host's VCR so I could watch Robocop.

PHILADELPHIA – So we rolled into Philly no problem, but navigating the streets of downtown are a whole 'nother story. Man, what a tangle. Who's idea was it to have all those narrow one way streets all be one way in the same direction? Once we got going the wrong way, those streets made sure you kept going the wrong way for a good long time. I felt a pang of fear when I saw Menomena roll past us going the same wrong way we did – they showed back up 30 minutes later after a similar journey through the labyrinth of downtown Philly.

The show was amazing – Sean and the guys or R5 productions work their asses off and run a great venue. And the kids are great. Again, man, I wish we had something like R5 at home – they rent out community spaces, bring in their own PA and invite bands from all over to play all ages, byob shows.

Tonight was the first night I truly embarrassed myself. I walked into the band room/huge chapel area at the end of the night, as everyone was packing up downstairs. I was hit by a pang of digestive burn, so I glanced around and didn't see a soul in sight. I let loose – it's not often you get to just release a good trumpeting fart in a huge, empty, echo-y church. I made it the entire length of the chapel before I heard the giggling. I turned around, and there, fifty feet behind me on the altar, is Brent from Menomena getting interviewed by three well-wishers. Although by that point the interview had paused to laugh at the aloof gaseous Sheridan letting loose while grazing the remains of the catering table. Whoops. I really hope that ends up on the editing room floor. But then again, Brent thanked me for lightening the mood a bit. Just here to help however I can, Brent.

And we're off to explore the rest stops all across Pennsylvania. Talley-ho!