Marvin the Martian on the front and back of a triple-oversized t-shirt, looking like he ‘bout to drop out the damn saucer and juice us all the fuck up. Detective Bugs Bunny as a gumshoe sleuth holding a magnifier, sniffing out clues for some damsel — who’s Bugs Bunny in rouge — to find the killer (turns out to also be Bugs Bunny, but with only one eye) of her husband: Bugs Bunny. Trapdoors and giant anvils, pianos being pushed down steps stuffed with dynamite, and Beat Detectives pulverizing all expectations of rhythm and harmony on NYPD Records Volume 3: Nefertiti Abstract Movie. Water-chasing vodka in the bartender anti-hero summer action-adventure slash psychological-horror, and everyone was like, “Wait, Looney Tunes??”
The whole time you were at this location, a strobe light incessantly flashes, over-and-over-again-and. A crooked clock that is your lips on another’s lips in a dollar-store basement. What once was the perfect strobe light cartoon-reality is now a cyber soap opera of everything that once was in a road trip across an actual city for three hours. A 14-hour drive west, strobe light. Let’s get this straight: we’re going to murder someone, join a religion in some dynasty of will, give birth in a dream, and adopt what once was, holding a glow stick, burning like a strobe light. Into oblivion. So you can recognize a supple body. NYPD Records Volume 3: Nefertiti Abstract Movie is a growth in a dysphoria that only self-actualizes in blue light, fading purple to red while singing in a karaoke booth. Someone gives head to another — but I’m married — when someone really fucks up, so everybody gets arrested. Though, Beat Detectives chillin’ w’ butterflies; waterfalls: “love can sure spin your head around.”
It’s falling forward, but in a matter of time, you forget, and nothing seems to exist. Something like a song lyric, but nobody’s paying attention to the music. NYPD Records Volume 3: Nefertiti Abstract Movie by Beat Detectives is when reality shifts into all-encompassing. The only thing at this point is non-physical sex? The masculine; an impatience. In and out of sleep we go, ok. OK! Flopping ‘round, still falling forward into the strobe light oblivion. A free bag. “If you saw yourself right now, you’d be embarrassed. But you keep it together. OK!” What thefuck have in losses,rn,, like,,, Atlantic City in July the 4th. Appppppppppple pipes. Organs of the ocean. Belting against the sands, rocks, and tide. Silence for the road-trip back to NYC until the whole city soundscape slaps like the smell of piss and trash and street. “Doesn’t anybody knoww.” Beat Detectives ripping into every rhythm, losing all your money out the window like a face-painted smile, obliterating futures beyond NYPD Records Volume 3: Nefertiti Abstract Movie while awaiting any volume thereafter.
Beat Detectives are experts at discerning between a sonic relic and a sound artifact. Like a fucked up email to my boss, but my boss never read(s) it, so moot is more mute in the sake of ever combining the two words. Not clicking an attachment, but it pops up on your screen, and it’s a junk-advert for an album you never listed to 15 years ago. There’s not enough land made of music to skate on, so choose your own adventure down this winding road. Thinking of any sound as music when you’re three blocks from the venue eating an egg roll that tastes like your six-years-old and excited to be outside on a Thursday. Mirrors of everything you still reflect upon a Thursday, this Thursday. Deciding to put on a lot of clothes at once as a portal into someone else, but it’s so much more you, you become confused. When you find NYPD Records Volume 3: Nefertiti Abstract Movie again. Lost in a catacomb. Mausoleum music for the mummy one eventually entombs as self, only to release the kind of adult that you regret becoming.
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