Sometime between 25 and 29 years ago -- historians aren't quite sure when -- two unsuspecting parents in a non-descript town in the heartland of America gave birth to four children -- all boys. They fed them, nurtured them, and over the course of the coming months and years, watched them grow into young men. They were exceedingly ordinary. The brothers had few friends, and fewer talents. For a long time, nothing happened.
Then, in a twisted marriage of luck and what some call divine providence, someone put musical instruments in their hands, and pointed them in the general direction of a little place called stardom.
Scott, the oldest, was given a bass guitar with which to send bone-quaking rhythmic pulses to the pit of an audience's soul.
Sam, the middle child, had bestowed upon him an electric guitar and the ability to play riffs so piercing and poignant they make peasants cry -- back in time.
Chris, age indeterminate, was provided with a drum set and sticks that he used to create beats so unstoppable and unyielding that anyone within a ten-mile radius descends into madness.
Jon, the youngest, was given three things: a guitar, a voice, and the talent to write and sing songs so beautiful and that are the object of such envy that OTHER songs are written about THEM.
Creative urges stirred. Inspiration fluttered. The Roosevelt was formed. And rock emerged.