At the archaeological dig, a gentle voice mentions Crown fragments / In a pool before someone’s cellular phone goes off and muddles the lecture. This sort of thing happens early in the morning, before coffee, before muffins, BCE. It’s not the first disruption; it’s not the last. The gentle voice is unperturbed, floating freely, lightly, through the manufactured-storm, which is controlled by some kind of space mirror or something (we forget the technical term), then driven over-the-top by thickset drums, on the dot like tango. When the gentle voice inhales, it inhales the snuff of living daylights. There’s something in the air tonight at the metals processing plant — smelted fairy dust.
Banned Books employ “all-the-above” on “Crown Fragment”, even tossing in a stately waltz across those mammoth bones. Their knot of short ropes, clocking in at 3:04, twists in a dip thick like queso. The bristles soak up the sauce. History is askew and pending, as they steer sonic fragments through multiple levels, leaving the fat and gristle on the cut. It’s a smashing sound with perfect timing, and gone in a flash. Buy-or-die…at Ramp Local!….or…in person.
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