Soundtrack the resurgence in time travel. Inverted fertility dances induce rain amongst the antelopes of the New York Zoo while moustached men sup warm milk from frothy bowls. Substitute/prostitute/sudden fame/saved the game. Relevance is the concern of dullards, English professors, and the conceited expert -- wrap all three in cotton wool.
I live in England, and over here we spell center c-e-n-t-r-e, which means that this record is subject to all manner of indignant spell-checks. John Tejada however, is an American, and probably never even considered this, as he spells center c-e-n-t-e-r all the time. Some other famous Americans include John Travolta, George Washington, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Iggy Pop, Henry Ford, Jack Kerouac and Malcolm X. Malcolm Mclaren is not an American.
In an alternate universe where Denzel Washington French-kisses a vending machine on prime time TV every night, this sort of thing is acceptable; here though, the soul needs some whiskey to rub its bright blue eyes with.
Initial objections were posited and then rejected, reactionary propositions about the necessity of melody lines so transparently hypocritical that three fairies died no matter how many handclaps. More accurately, the problem lies, tells the truth, and scuttles about noisily closer to the following: Within the confines of arch-techno-come-minimalist-thank you Eno-glitch music (a real genre now, just ask your local dictionary), this kind of rhythmical laziness is near unforgivable.
Tejada juxtaposes minimalist techno, a music caught up in its own intoxicating introversion, with the extrovert ecstasy of green cake, letting those who want to dance, dance, and all this with a remarkable dexterity afforded only those who immerse themselves in computer code. In the process, he loses the ability to create anything as genuinely engulfing as the unplanned waves of sound leaking from between the drones of a Tangerine Dream, simply due to matters of volume and restraint. What serves as a poor substitute, is the ever-present rhythm section. Which proceeds to repeat itself in ever increasing loops of tedious groove and spilt turpentine. This lack of variation, given that the music around it is essentially no more than the sparing brush-strokes of meagre colour, leaves the icy taste of uncooked red Lego bricks in the mouth. Precisely why that should be, I know not (I am neither doctor nor chef for the present). Suffice it to say that this is not an entirely pleasant sensation.
So for the adventurous amongst you, an interesting ride, smelling of that night when the sight of the dancefloor was enough to reduce you to chocolate with all the smooth, sensual caresses of a splinter. For those of you who eat Lego apples once a week anyway, perhaps not.
1. Strange Creatures
2. Unit B1656
3. Everything Will Be OK
4. Possessive Patterns
5. This Fake Place
6. Alone With You
7. Loose Change
8. Inside Out
10. Something About the Drums