I feel Das Black Milk are far too cool for me. This nearly-cassingle length matchbox of a cassette strikes the flint hard. It sparks and sizzles, lighting the cigarette in panoramic slo-mo. It’s James Dean hair and Jan and Dean’s dead man curve; racing for pink slips amidst a full midnight moon. Mid-Level Blues growls and groans, and though it’s not as down and dirty as the title suggests, it has a particular earthy cool that marquee bands trading in on a similar style miss in their substance. Not the case with Das Black Milk, who create an air of suspended terror that the drag race is going to take one of us out, and while I fear myself the victim, I realize that I am not cool enough to bite it. That’s the role of the stars. So, I’ll just grip this and keep it clutched close to my bosom so I can tell the tale.
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