It's 11:00 p.m. and it's your last delivery of the night.  You've been working non-stop.  What are your friends doing right now?  Why are you working this late on a Friday night?  OOPS, you missed your house.  Those addresses are hard to see.  You better get a good tip for this one.  You pull into the next driveway you see.  It's kind of narrow, and you're not used to driving such a big car.  It's an '86 Buick Electra Station Wagon.  This "brady bunch mobile" is 10 times bigger than your old renault that broke down.  There's a nice circle turn-around slightly to the back left side of the house.  You hope the people living there don't mind.  You check the pizza.  It's still warm.  You better hurry though.  You go begind the house to turn around.  You come back the same way you came.  You're halfway down the driveway to the road.  It's a nice house-- a farm house.  A man is waiting in front of the house.  He is pointing a gun at you.  You're just a pizza delivery boy, 18 years old.  He doesn't seem to care though.  The man walks closer, still pointing the barrel towards your car.  You panic.  What do you do?  Don't think, just react.  You duck and hit the accelerator.  A shot is fired.  It's like slow motion to you.  Are you dead?  Are you gonna die?  Pow!  The car hts the bottom of a 10 feet embankment.  You're new low mileage station wagon, the one you bought so your band would have a smooth ride to Castle Rock City, CO and Vision Fest one month earlier, is totaled.  Thank God for the two-way radios your boss just bought.  You call work.   The police are on their way.  What do you do?  Do you run?  Do you stay in the car and play dead?  You do what the man with the gun tells you to do.  He's not done with you.  You explain you're just a pizza delivery boy.  He tells you to get out of the car.  You do.  He puts the sawed of shotgun to your chest and bears into your fear stricken eyes.  He curses you and asks you who you are and what you are doing.  You tell him the same thing you just did.  He curses you, drives your car up the hill leading to the road, curses you again, and tells you to leave.  You do.  You drive just down the road to the house that caused this mess.  You pull into the driveway you missed.  Your car wouldn't make it much further.  The pizza's cold.  You have a nice bullet hole in your car just six inches behind the driver's side door right where you were sitting.  It's a good thing you hit the accelerator.  The police meet you at the house.  They didn't miss the driveway.  Contrary to minutes before, you're happy to see someone with a gun.  You are Brandon Utterback and your band is Prisoners of Gravity.

     Prisoners of Gravity, also known to many as P.O.G., has survived the Indianapolis music scene for four and one-half years.  Prisoners of Gravity is:  Jeremy Lykins (vocals), Brandon Utterback (guitar), Jake "number nine" Weston (bass), Lucas Lykins (drums), and sound technician Robert Lake.  They've overcome all of the frustrations that every band goes through.  They've been through the member changes, dealt with false promises, played the shows that don't offer a penny with or without an audience, and experienced greedy managers.  They've heard the same thing this whole time-- "Those who stick with it make it."  They've been patient to see the fruits of their labor.  It's not about money or fame for them though.  It's about something they believe in that is bigger than that.  It wouldn't make sense in words to most people.  That something manifests itself at live shows.  Maybe one day they'll be at the right place at the right time.  If not, well, that's ok too.