Texas native Travis Cagle has suffered from his childhood years with an affliction known as This-Catchy-Beat-Is-Stuck-In-My-Head-Arrghh-itis, the effects of which he had a hard time coping with. His curse caused obnoxious hand drumming, idiotic public head bobbing, and fitful insomnia. Then one fateful evening Travis picked up a guitar. The first golden melody that reverberated from its strings relieved the clutter of twelve years of melodies weaving cobwebs in Travis’ brain. His insomnia vanished and he slept a long, glorious sleep. During this sleep he dreamt, counting not sheep but an infuriating series of smaller and smaller boxes. Thusly, Travis discovered the true meaning of infinity, but that is not important. What is important is that he developed a love for quirky baselines and chunky rhythms that inspire both the brain and body to dance. A stint in Detroit found him playing with a 303 clone and a drum machine, and Plastic Pope was born. His tunes mix his penchant for glitchy funk with a healthy respect for his acid house roots.