DISCLAIMER: KEITH IS ONE HALF OF CREAM JUICE. KEITH SOMETIMES MADE THE PRETTY FOR TMT. KEITH ALSO PENNED SOME DISPATCH FOR TMT. C MONSTER HAS AN OPEN RELATIONSHIP WITH SETH. SETH IS THE OTHER HALF OF CREAM JUICE. THIS IS NOT A MUSIC REVIEW.
a pile driver from the macho man randy, and this is the last thing you’ll need. but after gulping secret vitamins that make our earth smile like a blanket of perky sweet meets — curing things like copyright among newborns and marmalade telepathy with a skyscraper delirium — it feels like the real deal. studebaker. man feelings is the fresh sound of cream juice, and it’s tangy enough to get any sizzling beast of burden bleeding with flowery delight — a dinner party with no guest speakers, only acquaintances, all casual in the throes of spectacle, all dali and proust. but that’s just what came to brain after a few dirty flings through this trip distortion, after those shakedown chords halfway through. they took me unexpectedly salt ridden like a crack gathering at easter — “who does that?” i wondered as the sea of doubt froze over for torvill and dean. new slags.
the boys have been baking these risky delights for a couple of years already. on the the switches of orange milk, our brooklyn boil refuses stagnation through its cretaceous formation of raptors and vipers and aphids that scuttle about in the chocolate underbelly. there was an item on the internet by another writer, whose glands i should not glaze; he is a monster, he writes on virtual walls with shiny graffiti pointing at cream juice, with seismic lights so sensible and poetic, also with dino-nectarines and the way we think about prehistorical scenarios in unknowable aftershave on the banks of morning pastures — the stream of unconsciousness dressed in a dishcloth with coelacanths at the side.
pressing play on this plastic puts the tackle back on track and the alter ego through a breakdance of triathlon half pipes. because there are polyethylene bags of non-genres, a festoon of sonic delivery peaches across half an hour of indispensable dispense, but without any pine limits or slender tentacles. we listened to each beat (gender) as if tomorrow were a stilton trifle, a hamster in a cage of frightening guillotines that crush and pinch and bite-slash-pester you into passive dating a cautious force that secretes tidy neon creatures.
such deeds inspire in their thinking blackout. there are no formulas to abide by and no sprinkled dilettantes to take shelter from — the results are so fertilized, a staggered babbling of conquered field trips to the salad bar. an esteem touching stumble through the bumbled magnifying glass of time, or the uncle sam of yesteryear’s agoraphobia. these butterfly kilt testers mean no more than a gillian anderson portrait at fort knox, but there is no room for sentimentality with such blister beats on the cuff — the rundown is moderne-cool and dudgeon-mellow, with samplers, with triggers and with live drums, but the tapes are still as hot as your face and they are looking for the hungry reels.