Wednesday, January 14, 2004
What's Not For Dinner, in any size
Gentlestems: I understand that you are, all of you, all (each) of you right down to the very one, desisted. I understand this yet I insist on talking as if I'm talking to you anyway. You know who you are, Fanch. You know (I presume) who you are, madhog. You know who you aren't, Sacky. You all (the rest of you too) know who you are or were or aren't. I know you know. Today's lesson comes from an old park bench set at a low speed. Variable motors. In effect what we have is The Price Beacons, a progressive rock band who were crushed by the same weight a lot of us have felt, deformed into some magmatic, smoking puddle of something other. They are Thinking About Thinking, they are Coming Apart at the Seams (instrumentally). They've got a little gothic in the voicecone, a little moodiness with repetetive parts elongated by guitar jamming and drum excursions. Angles jangle, calculators. If mathrock meant anything, it could meant this. There's also a hint of the way King Crimson would sound if the members weren't members of King Crimson. Listen to Cleaning Fish, for example. Scales and all. Disappointment eyes me haphazardly from across the bricks, though. Only a select few of the eleven available tracks are downloadable. Some decision must have been made, I was not consulted. I would've argued against this. Let them eat mp3s.