"Billy Built a Robot..."

The making of "This Gigantic Robot Kills"

Billy didn't just build a robot; he built a ska-powered colossus that captured the energy of basement shows and the melancholy of MySpace breakups. Because when you're up against the relentless machine of the music industry—or life in general—sometimes you need to break out the duct tape and circuit boards and build a robot to punch back. Billy gets it.

It all started with a whale. Before we even hit the road for the This Gigantic Robot Kills tour in 2009, I found myself on my drummer Jon Thatcher Longley’s parents’ boat off the coast of Cape Cod. I had just been dropped by my management company, and everything felt grim. I was questioning everything, feeling like my dream was slipping away. Then, out of nowhere, this massive humpback whale breached just ten feet away. Jon and I were banging drum beats on the side of his boat, laughing, when suddenly this huge eye was staring at us.

At that moment, it felt like a message—reminding me that no matter how uncertain things seemed, there was always something unexpected just below the surface, and we had to keep going. It was like the universe saying, "I see you, keep fighting." It felt like a sign to hoist the sails and take a chance, even though things seemed uncertain. Little did I know, this moment would set the tone for what was to come—a tour full of surprises, chaos, and a few unexpected career moments. That whale was my reminder: magic could still happen, even when I felt lost. As Jon and I sat there, looking at the sea, I realized how small we were in the grand scheme of things. But maybe that was the point. It wasn't about controlling the waves; it was about riding them, no matter where they led.

I started writing This Gigantic Robot Kills in the fall of 2006, in what can only be described as the most absurd sitcom setup imaginable. Picture it: me, a model, her metal guitarist boyfriend, and a radio promoter, all crammed into a cheap Williamsburg apartment. This wasn’t the Brooklyn of artisanal oat milk lattes; this was Brooklyn with sticky floors, questionable neighbors, and subway stations that doubled as saunas. In that cramped apartment, I learned that creativity thrives in the grimiest corners. The sticky floors and late-night subway rides became the backdrop to the album's sound—a chaotic mix of punk spirit and hip-hop defiance. That apartment, my $500-a-month crash pad between tours while promoting The Graduate, was where late-night jam sessions turned into songwriting marathons.

The first song I wrote for the album was "Hipster Girl," a take on gentrification—a process I was ironically part of. Released as a single in late 2006, it got a great reaction, giving me the confidence to dive into this next album and prove The Graduate wasn't just a fluke. I remember scribbling lyrics in the margins of an old notebook, fueled by hope, fear, and sheer stubbornness. I'd often wake up in the middle of the night to develop half-formed ideas, my late-night sessions echoing through the apartment's thin walls, much to my neighbors' dismay. But it was in those stolen hours that the album's heart took shape—a messy mix of hope and defiance, reflecting my life at the time. Each track on This Gigantic Robot Kills became a snapshot of that period—a blend of ambition, frustration, and the desperate need to carve out a space in the world. I was putting everything I had into these songs, hoping they would become my lifeline.

During those in-between tour days, I’d ride the L train and wander the city, feeling both lost and alive. Just a few years earlier, I had worked alongside my Stanford friends, like Kevin Systrom, at KZSU. We stayed up late as co-publicity directors, brainstorming ways to promote Stanford’s radio station. Kevin was always snapping photos and DJ-ing, fully immersed in the creative energy around us. Then there was Jack Conte, with whom I’d performed at various KZSU-promoted campus house party concerts. Jack was constantly searching for ways to help bands get paid for their gigs. We'd talk for hours about what the future of the music industry could look like. Kevin had his camera always ready, capturing moments as if to freeze a world that was rapidly changing. Jack sketched out his visions for supporting artists, filling notebooks with ideas. We were all dreamers, chasing what felt like different flavors of the same ambition.

Little did I know that Kevin would later go on to launch Instagram and Jack would create Patreon, but neither project was a surprise. We all had our ambitions, and I kept in touch with Jack and Kevin, but our paths were diverging. I took a different gamble, chasing music and a life on the road, while Kevin and Jack stayed in Silicon Valley to make their mark. I questioned it all briefly—was I doing the right thing? But at least I had ska, and that’s what Billy’s robot symbolized: holding on to hope when everything else seemed to be falling apart. It was a reminder that the things keeping us going aren’t always the ones that make sense—they’re the ones that make us feel alive.

But to really understand This Gigantic Robot Kills, you’ve got to rewind a few years to 2003. I was a Stanford English major who somehow ended up in Oxford, England, trying to avoid the terrible fate of cleaning the bathrooms at my left-leaning co-op, Columbae. Fun fact: applying to study abroad is shockingly easy when you’re desperate to escape a life of tofu dinners and house meetings about the moral implications of using dish soap.

So, I packed my bags last minute, wrote a passionate (and possibly terrible) essay about why Shakespeare matters to the youth of America (spoiler: the youth of America didn’t care), and landed in the City of Dreaming Spires. Oxford was like Hogwarts, minus the magic, but plus a lot of pints at pubs that looked like they hadn’t been cleaned since Henry VIII. It was a world away from Stanford's sunlit campus. I walked its ancient streets with a strange mix of fear and excitement, wondering if I could carve out a space here or just be another student wandering down High Street, working on their degree. Jet-lagged and maybe a little homesick, I found solace the only way a 20-year-old hopeful proto-nerdcore rapper could—I hopped on the library’s ethernet connection and started spamming random British bands on Usenet. I was on a mission: I wanted to play shows in Oxford, and I was willing to email anyone who had a guitar and a pulse. It was a shot in the dark, but I had nothing to lose.

That’s when I stumbled across a band that invited me to their rehearsal. They were called the Edible Five Foot Smiths (a name I’m still trying to decipher to this day). We clicked in the weirdest way, and I ended up rapping over their instrumental cover of Jay-Z’s collaboration with Panjabi MC. Next thing I know, I was performing alongside them at a local promoter’s birthday party at a club called the Cellar, a place that felt like it was designed for secret meetings of underground warlocks and not for 20-year-old Californians with laptops full of lo-fi beats. But that’s where I found myself, performing songs with all the confidence of someone who hadn’t yet realized how weird it all was. I was too young and naive to know how out of place I should have felt, and that was my superpower. Naivety is powerful stuff, man.

A few nights later, I convinced another promoter to let me open a show at a venue called the Wheatsheaf. This was Oxford—where Radiohead used to gig—so naturally, I invited all my classmates to come watch. Midway through my set, one of my classmates, Anthony (who, by the way, was an incredible breakdancer), decided that was the moment to pop-lock in the middle of the floor. Meanwhile, Paul Bonham, the head of Truck Records, was hanging out in the back, likely wondering, “What fresh madness is this?” But apparently, he liked what he saw—or maybe he was just confused enough to be intrigued—because soon after, he offered me a co-release on his label. It felt like the universe was giving me a thumbs-up, just when I needed it the most.

Back then, I was still going by MC Lars Horris, a name I’d come up with in middle school. The “Lars” came from a character in Heavyweights—the classic Disney movie about large kids at a weight loss camp—because it rhymed with "large" and, well, I thought that was hilarious. The “Horris” came from Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman, because there was a barber named Horace whose wife was a former sex worker, and somehow, in my 12-year-old brain, that made sense as a rap name. Also, social media wasn’t really a thing yet, so the peak of my online presence was a Geocities page with an embedded guestbook. In a way, I was just a kid playing grown-up in a world I didn’t fully understand, and that made everything both terrifying and thrilling.

Anyway, Paul from Truck Records invited me to open for Mark Gardener, a member of the semi-famous indie band Ride, which to me was like being asked to open for a shoegaze deity. The show itself? Imagine rapping about Shakespeare and aliens in front of a room full of Gen X indie kids who came to have their souls crushed by guitar feedback, not by an over-caffeinated American spinning around on stage. The reaction? Confusion. I was terrified they'd see right through me, but instead, they saw someone willing to put himself out there, and that was enough. 

Fast forward a few months, and I’m back in California, wrapping up my sophomore year at Stanford just as Bush invaded Iraq. Lighthearted times. I’d gone from playing packed shows opening for indie legends in British pubs to playing shows at the Stanford Coffee House for an audience of five. But, Radio Pet Fencing—my first album with Truck Records—had somehow gotten some buzz in the UK, so Paul invited me back for a tour in 2003. My dad even joined me to tour-manage because nothing says "punk rock" like bringing your father along. We played to empty rooms across the country, except for a final show in Brighton where I actually got to crowd-surf. I performed in front of 300 people that night—my biggest crowd ever at the time—and for that brief moment, I felt seen.

Moments like that taught me success wasn’t just about numbers or fame. It was about connection, about finding the people who resonated with my music, however strange or niche it might be. The Radio Pet Fencing tour showed me that even when everything else seemed bleak or uncertain, there was always something worth fighting for in the end.

Then came Tom Gates—a ray of hope in a confusing time. Tom was managing Brand New at the time, and when he found out about me through a Truck Records connection, he reached out. We met in San Francisco, where he told me he liked my quirky “Weird Al”-inspired hip-hop style and wanted to work with me. This guy was managing emo’s golden boy, Jesse Lacey, so who was I to say no? (In hindsight, it’s disheartening to know what Lacey was up to back then. What a disappointment.) 

A month later, I was on Long Island recording The Laptop EP with Mike Sapone, who had produced for Brand New and Taking Back Sunday. That’s when things really started to take off. I began sampling punk and emo bands, which garnered attention from outlets like Alternative Press and Rolling Stone. MTV even sent a film crew to Stanford to follow me around campus, later airing an MTV News piece about my “unconventional” music industry journey, narrated by Kurt Loder.

That’s when things went from “hobby” to “career.” Tom saw something in me and wanted to manage me full-time. He helped me get a publishing deal with Universal, and suddenly, I was on a tour bus with Bowling for Soup, playing to crowds who probably thought I was the weird cousin of their favorite pop-punk band. Jaret Reddick even sang on "Download This Song," which became a top 30 hit in Australia. I was living the dream but constantly afraid of waking up.

But, like any good story, things got complicated. After The Graduate came out in 2006, the album didn’t recoup. The label wasn’t happy. Tom wasn’t happy. Suddenly, the people who’d been excited about this fearless kid with a laptop weren’t returning my calls. Tom even bailed to Thailand for six months, leaving me in limbo with a half-finished album and no idea what to do next. That’s when I found myself on that boat with Jon Longley and the whale, staring into the abyss. The killer robot was closing in on me—this time, it wasn’t some fun sci-fi fantasy; it was the brutal reality of the music industry.

So, I did what Billy did. I went back to the metaphorical garage and built my own damn robot. This Gigantic Robot Kills became the product of all that frustration and of the realization that I didn’t need a major label to validate me. I just needed my fans, my laptop, and a little help from some friends. Speaking of friends, Parry Gripp—yes, the guy behind Nerf Herder—listened to the album and said, “Lars, this is going to be a nerdcore classic.” That validation meant the world to me; it was a reminder that I wasn’t alone in this crazy journey. Coming from Parry, the godfather of nerdcore, that was the highest praise imaginable. (Sorry, Frontalot, but Parry got there first.)

Then there was “Twenty Three.” That song came from a place of deep sadness. I found out my friend Pat had taken his life while I was on tour in the UK. It hit me like a ton of bricks. I was shattered, feeling the weight of every word I’d ever written about struggle and pain. Pat had been there through everything, and losing him was devastating. While recording with Wheatus in the summer of 2007, we teamed up with James Bourne for the final arrangement of the tribute to Pat.  For the video, we asked fans to share photos of their loved ones who had also struggled with suicide. It became more than just a track—it was a way for people to connect over shared grief, reminding us that even in our darkest moments, we weren’t alone.

When it was time to hit the road to promote the album, the Robot Kills tour featured all the familiar faces: Rob Piccininni Jr. on bass, Mike Russo on guitar, and Jon Thatcher Longley on drums. These guys were more than just bandmates; they were family—the foundation that made everything possible. I wrote the songs, but they transformed them into powerful performances on stage. I miss those days and the moments when I felt invincible. 

But there was a new addition—a woman who was still an emerging artist, blending hip-hop, indie, and rock. I had met her at Stanford, and I knew she had something special. When gearing up for the Robot Kills tour, I asked her to join—not just as an opener, but to handle backing vocals, run samples, and help keep the chaos together. She called herself K.Flay, and while she wasn’t well-known outside the Stanford scene then, her calm, composed energy balanced out the madness. Her drive pushed us all. During soundchecks, she'd fine-tune the samples and drum arrangements with a focus that made me step up my game. There was a quiet fire in her, one that hinted at the greatness she was destined for. At my recommendation, Mike would later introduce her to Seth Cummings, a trusted manager, and together we helped her get on the path that eventually led to her signing with Interscope under Dan Reynolds' Night Street imprint.

Watching K.Flay’s career take off was both incredible and bittersweet. I had always thought we might become some kind of nerdcore duo, but life had other plans. Her talent was bigger than what I could offer. Though I miss those days of touring together, I'm incredibly proud of what she’s become. Sometimes, you have to let go of what you thought things would be to make room for what they can become. I’m just glad I got to be part of her beginning.

And through everything, Mike Russo was our behind-the-scenes mastermind, the guy who kept things smooth when everything else was chaotic. He could talk his way out of anything—like convincing Cartel not to kick us off their tour after I made that video calling them "corporate sellouts."

On stage, our visual aesthetic was all over the place, but we didn’t care. Mike had long hair that he later regretted. “I grew it out, and it looked terrible,” he admitted. “I tied it back in a ponytail and thought, ‘This doesn’t look that bad…’ but it was more like, ‘What was I thinking?’” Our style perfectly matched the messiness of our lives on the road, fueled by questionable late-night food choices and a concerning neglect of self-care—think Taco Bell and energy drinks instead of vitamins. Rob would look at me and say, “Lars, what the hell are you wearing? Birkenstocks with socks, an A’s cap, a giant pea coat, and shorts? Did you get dressed in the dark or what?!” We were a grunge-nerdcore mix of dirty frayed jeans and oversized clothes, straight out of the JNCO era. Backstage at Bamboozle, few would confuse us with Panic! at the Disco, because we definitely didn’t fit the mold of a typical Fueled by Ramen band. It was clear we didn’t have a stylist on retainer—or, frankly, even a mirror! But that was just one less thing to deduct when the album finally recouped, right?

Then there was Jon’s house on 35 Laurel Drive, which was like chaos headquarters. The place was furnished entirely with junk he and his friend Joe found on the side of the road. “Everything in that house was garbage,” Jon recalls, laughing. “Even the couch was from the side of the road. We sprayed a bunch of Lysol on it and called it a day.” There was even a room they’d labeled the Drunk Tank, where anyone who partied too hard would crash. That house was more than just a place to sleep; it was a sanctuary for our wild, messy lives. One night, I was lying on the floor, writhing in pain from a kidney stone, while a wild party went on around me. Jon’s friend asked, “Dude… do you need to go to the hospital?” I just opted to crawl to the Drunk Tank instead. No drama—just another night on tour.

One of the most ridiculous memories from the tour was the Cartel bus raid. Rob and I sweet-talked our way onto their bus and stole all their snacks—M&Ms, peanut butter, you name it. Later, we ended up in a locker room, having a full-blown M&M fight, launching candy at each other until the place was covered in chocolate. It was like we were kids again, reminding ourselves that we needed laughter amidst the stress. It was that kind of tour—equal parts pranks, laughter, and “barely keeping it together” moments. Mike would look at us during these stunts and say, “You know, when you come in and there’s like bananas and bread and M&Ms all over the floor… you guys aren’t doing yourselves any favors.”

I also once accidentally—or maybe not so accidentally—poured an entire bottle of water down Rob’s back during soundcheck. Rob was drenched, obviously furious, but by the end of the day, we were all laughing about it. Rob summed it up best: “If that’s the worst thing that happened between us, we did alright.” Sorry again, buddy.

My journey wasn’t just about sticking with music. I later transitioned into education, using my love for rap and literature to create curricula that connected Shakespeare and Edgar Allan Poe with hip-hop. I eventually earned a master's in instructional design, submitting a thesis module that blended creativity and education to pass on the lit-hop message. This led to presenting at TEDx Talks and hosting workshops at schools around the world. In a way, I found a new stage—a place where I could still connect, still share my story, but in a way that felt sustainable and meaningful.

And the whale? Looking back, it was more than just a random moment. The Robot Kills years were chaotic, but they taught me to embrace the madness and trust that something was always brewing. I learned that sometimes, when you feel like you’re sinking, you just need to keep paddling and see what magic eventually surfaces. Whether it was K.Flay’s breakthrough or my evolution into music and education, the message was clear: hoist the sails and see where the journey takes you. The whale was a great teacher that day. You can't predict where you'll go, but if you keep pushing forward, you'll always find something worth the ride.

Now, 15 years later, "This Gigantic Robot Kills" is my son’s favorite song of mine. There’s something incredibly fulfilling in knowing that the music that once saved me now brings him happiness. The robot lives on. The amazing generosity you, the fans, offered during this Kickstarter campaign is further proof that ska isn’t dead.  The music industry can’t crush your passion, and that sometimes, the best thing you can do is carve out your own path when the system fails you.

Looking back, I’m filled with gratitude for everyone who was part of this journey—from Jon, Rob, Mike, K.Flay, Tom, Paul, and so many others who believed in what I was building, even when the road was shaky. There were ups and downs, mistakes and triumphs, but we kept pushing forward. And I still can’t believe "Weird Al" played accordion on my record… that moment alone felt like the universe giving me a high-five.

I also believe there was a guiding presence throughout the chaos and the moments of inspiration. It wasn’t always straightforward, and clarity often slipped away. But in times of uncertainty, I found strength in my faith, reminding me that even when I felt lost, a greater purpose was at play—similar to the biblical story of the coin found in the fish's mouth, which illustrates how support and solutions can emerge from the most unexpected places, often when we least expect it. There's always a reason to keep making music and those small miracles that nudge us forward often serve as the subtle signs about why we need to carry on.

In the end, maybe we are all like Billy, building our own ska-powered robots and refusing to give up on what we love, in the age of AI, algorithms, and an uncertain dystopian future. That’s the real message here—whether you’re a kid in a garage, a musician on the road, or a visionary changing the world, you have to keep fighting for what matters. And I’m grateful for every moment of this journey so far.

We’ve all got more robots to build.

- MC Lars

“Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.” – James 1:4