Nothin’ ado but ye olde Top$ on the beat, mad hard, flashing us back to the 1990’s actuality. Agglomerated, but not aghast. No time for nothing but mirrors, or as always, the dust from a sampler. The piano beams with inner ambience, happily snuggled, happily in time, and once and for all, in time. To be in time but out of it at the same time, with an A section, a B section, and then back to the A, but this time, nothing is the same, nothing was the same, nothing in Long Island but 711s and houses. (There’s also Brooklyn, and Queens, technically.)
Once a box, in other words, a pizza box, with a slice allegorically held in the snow or in the snow-light, a sign that snow, in the light, and in the box, becomes a slice of pizza-snow. And/or a slice of piano, sliced, with a zone there, and a then, then a therefore, with all the adjusted breezes breathing on the beat.
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