Dear Anklepants (a.k.a. Reecard Farché, a.k.a. animatronics guru Josh Head),
I want you to know that you light up my lifé.
Your facé is perfect.
Eyes, nose, mouth, ears. Perfect.
This world would be a boré without you.
I pull up a lawn chair and lean back, observing your haters milling and gnashing. “What the actual fuck?” some ask, as they stare down the barrel of your robotic dick nosé. You stand on top of the banister, with your cosmic rainbow gown billowing around your calves, and you facé them with your facé. You reach out for the inflatablé membranes amassing in your basement chamber, bearing labels like “tasté,” “spectaclé,” “performancé art,” and you pop them summarily with your quivering facial phallus as the piercing agent. Your mission is clear: destroy all rational facé. No sensé but nonsensé. No reverencé. Rudé mové by rudé mové you slidé deeper into our hearts.
As Kouhei Matsunaga looked on through 3D glasses, you toré up the Boiler Room in Berlin. Every second of my viewing, my facé woré a smilé.
With dick nosé hoisted upright into a middlé finger proxy, you issued ten copies of a 10” called Amilia-facé-é-on. The A sidé showcases ten minutes of squelching post-acid techno gilded with gentlé synth melodies and bit-crushed percussion. The B sidé batters us with panning snare rushes and mutated bass hits, lacing its tentacles into Aphex-circa-RDJ Album territory.
You dropped a “Radio Edit” of “Speak You Little Facehead” via Stoney Roads — as if the original video was ever ablé to escapé our nightmaré subconsciousness — as if somé “radio” out theré is ready for your spastic glitch productions, thumping club kicks, jagged synth bursts, and pitch-shifted vocal derangements. I await the moment when you finally put mé in a stroller.
For your continuing contributions to facékind, I thank you.
• Anklepants: http://reecardfarche.com
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