Look Tracey Trance-pants, if that is your real name, you’ve got it. And I don’t even know what it is. But you’ve got it. I don’t know what a psychiatrist might have to say of the contents of 101 (I’m guessing some prescriptions would be written with the dash of an eager pen), nor do I know how fucked-up it makes me for digging on these deeply entrenched thought bubbles; all that can be said, if anything, is that everything here is Real. Lo-fi spoken-word, uncooked synth noodles, and general on-the-road zaniness might turn to ear-puke in the hands of most, but in the case of Tracey the results are surprisingly safe and concrete. It just makes sense, that is, if you want to chase a sassy young guy down the rabbit hole at the exact point where Ariel Pink left off. Bendy.
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