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Rollerball | Trail of the Butter Yeti (Road Cone)
Stumbling into the freedom with glassy eyes and tattered clothing with a stupid smirk on your face, you best play your brass with more authority than a high school band dropout. You best move slowly with the organic flow, the flow that smears aside the drums and says "Please enjoy my piano and fabulous piano, piano, piano, jazz, I think I want to be Queen for only the correct moments, piano, jazz, piano. I am so very French." Oh, where is a point of reference, and without context what is this absurdity. No, no, please don't bring the bitch's brew to my table, I already have that record and I forget how to write record reviews. Thank you for sparing me the rehash, as you are apparently a clumsy beast, a lumbering beast with a sweet tenor of a mating call. You are dazed in the early morn and are drunk on your own flesh. Sometimes, I believe your dance is from the heart, and your eyes, though downcast, are blue and yellow. You see in me the embodiment of impatience. A task is at hand to calm this body and dilute my emotions and senses with nonchalance, maybe? Yes, I believe so and thinking you are convincing enough, you settle in for hibernation among the shards and snow. I see your dreams above your soft head transmitted for all to see as your teeth grind against the voices of, what's this?, pop music hidden deep within slumberland laziness and amorphisms. How strange and wonderful to find hidden under subtleties and restraint, and how quickly it dissolves back into the froth of white death. California! Mystical art pop! People upstairs are walking around in heavy shoes on hard wood floors, yet again destroying my listening pleasures.
CWAS #9 - Winter 2002