Somewhere in this so-called universe, a.k.a. NYC. Somewhere more noir than thou. Man, you can spend your whole life out here just tryin’ to get change for a hundred. Bodega after deli after bodega after deli: mere iterations within a perambulating, quasi-homogenized changelessness.
So what do you do when broke, and you gotta eat? Dodge the smear of a tornado waiting to blast your head off. Adopt some street-strategies, like how Celestial Trax be makin’ tunes, especially these here on this EP for Purple Tape Pedigree. Plans hatched in action to deal with the mutagens. Case in point: holding this MetroCard against the Surface of History.
So I dare you. I doube-dare you. Yeah, get caught in this slime on From The Womb; return to the unconscious world of the placenta. Sounds disturb. Voices haunt. A specter complicates your competence for melody and harmony and the basso lamento of yore. Trapped thus, caught inside a temporal blur, only the mechanical survives. Only angel wings and comic books and fragile ballet feet. And a narrative, partially glimpsed, decaying in nanoseconds, within each track, and the tragedy of the paragraph of the landscape of the comedy of it and the entrance to this erotic abyss.
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