There has to be thousands of little, secret baggies hidden within the high-rises of the world. These bags are out of sight, tucked in the oak money drawer, hidden in the satin pants pocket. The rich-boy scuffles, bounces, struts to that secret, special location to get that bump: he’s walking the dusty road, beaming up to scottie, blinded by the snow lights as the wacky dust begins to settle in the nose, the face, the inner eye balls, etc. Rraro must know how it feels. The cymbals in “COD” splash like shattered pearls that were just frozen in liquid nitrogen. The glassy shards are rolling around across your eardrums like “pop,” baby.
Take a listen: the track will get you “boosted,” humming a tune, skipping across the marble lobby as the fluorescent lights of your “inner office” crystallize into paradise white. You (the banker) see the peruvian lady wearing her “power diamonds.” She’s dipping her pierced tongue right. in. the. icing. You’re in love. You lose focus and all the office machines start buzzing. Shit get’s weird. You hear the ghost of your forgotten guitar (the one collecting “dust” in the closet at the loft on fifth avenue, the one next to the drawer full of baggies, *ouch*). Goddamn Ferraro, I like to see you stretching those angel wings this side of ground zero. Give us some more of these crystalline jams, and let’s go ice-skating.
Check out this special new Ferraro jam right here: