First of all, I’d like to welcome you on this ride; it is a beautiful ride, transient through time and, of course, mutually enjoyable and accustom-able to your needs! I’ve just finished watching the first Tyson – Holyfield fight – and what a damn good fight it was –the astounding beauty of boxing lies in its death; the possibility of something so wonderfully horrible; eleven rounds, Tyson barely standing, Holyfield comes in blow after blow, penetrating through Tyson’s fortress; smashing him down to the depths of hell – the referee has to stop the fight and Holyfield emerges the victor; and well-deserved it is: the warrior, the real deal . . . – shit yeah, man!
But of course this is a music review; Thundercat, Apocalypse; a floaty moustache blowin’ in the wind. It is a strange delight of an album – and before I go on I have to justify myself: music reviews are generally trash and worthless; a lonely fart in the dark. Ratings are even filthier. Well, shit, that’s all about that guff really.
Anyway, The Life Aquatic; enjoy this fucker as if it were a big titted rabbit woman getting fucked brutally; stranger after stranger, nutjob after nutjob – freaks cumming on sluts. Hell yes, man! it’s all here at this hour.
a cat whisper in the special stage . . . hard to take it straight.
Euphoria erupts at this point and the bass line appears and disappears over the strange course of time. Some bum plays a flute on the street and everyone laughs at him and no one gives him any money. It is like Tolstoy wrote through the diaries of some future-madman: a curse and a blessing, a kiss and a goodbye. This album was not as I anticipated. The first listen a week ago, I considered it nothing special – it was just all right. But now, by the influences of this haze, it transforms into a very goddamn fine looking female. Shit yeah, I dare say so, you motherfuckers. Fuck it, why not?
It’s hard to take any lunatic seriously when they talk of music. After all, it is a dance with oneself – the best dance you could get – and sometimes even better than a shot of hot brown sugar. Usually the concoction of these two euphoria type feelings is the greatest feeling imaginable to the mind. If you wanna make a trip to Miami in the 1980s, then shit, man, hitch a ride and make it. It’ll probably do you good.
Of course, if you can stop somewhere and consult the angel’s trumpet on manically important feelings of despair, then by all means, please do so.
. . . never stood a chance as this, can’t make it straight after all.
Well, another drink and a little sip. Don’t let the fat man fool you; he is a clown, but he means well and has only love and humour to share. Befriend him - he might make you laugh!
Enjoy it while it lasts, cocksuckers. No need to be frightened.