Another left-turn from Gilgongo, another reason to scratch myself and roll out of bed in the morning. Sounds crude but it’s true; what else is there in life but art, love, and survival? Pedestrian Deposit understand all too well the fleeting nature of existence and the ridiculous corollary concerns we’ve burdened ourselves with to no avail (better _____ better life? not if _______ is a storebought item you purchased to feel younger or attract attention). Knowing this in their innermost soul, PD fill Eleventh Hour with palpitations straight from the heart of experimental thought, practically willing their exercises in contrast to succeed as standalone compositions along the lines of Kaada and/or House Of Low Culture. That is, until the thrusts of NIGHTMARISH NOISE kick in at the tail-end of Side A, proving the hour is later than we think (?). I’m excited by the possibilities of Pedestrian Deposit’s adventures without fully understanding where they might go next. That’s the nature of an enjoyable listening experience when you’ve been around the block as many times as I have (ugh, so many suckers): You want, nay, NEED a spiritual purge when you touch a needle to wax, not some crop-dusted collection of OBVIOUSness or pastiche of the milky matter of rock’s many sacred cows. Eleventh Hour wants what you want; it feeds off the same energy source you do; it has hopes and dreams and feelings too, and it simply MUST share them with you. And yet its motives are opaque compared to acts that might serenade us with words and consistent rhythms. Embrace that, with all you’ve got left in the bank. Only then will you be ready to follow me to the waterfall where Pedestrian Deposit and the others await our arrival. Three-hundred copies, wouldn’t-wanna-be-ya stylee, blech-blech.
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