can’t have enough voice-fucked ticking time-bomb blues spake in never-sacred starch-tongue chew and spit. sitting in the side of the mouth like leaf-mounds from the church of microcassettology, press play and enjoy all the wonders of a confessional life-penner, biting bitter at the gears turning in out-loud ticking/malfunctioning old-ass tech-awareness. did that record?
rambles get second chances at a better life, spun up and child-zoomed, play-time language as a second music. scrunched kid roars and glowing animalistic fine-tunery, hissed air moving in animistic fortitude is more than doable as family-band grow-together, but hold the hums in prayer-fun what’s-this and the tape gets a whole lot more insider.
helluva listen, the clicking buttons and speech sub-patterned “huss” (his word) turns the non-jass medium’ish tempo fire on its head. choral hard/harp shape notes disguise and drift away behind tape-static front glug inheritance. tiny speaker/microphone handheld screeching soft orchestration.
place another chair for the evening’s entertainment, mini side b new-jass on the p.a.’s install rewind function. how’d that guitar get there? has to be the outlier, seemed like the remaining space was filled brimly with gibbering/genuine a cappella interference. sure does sit nice.