Is your bicycle broken? Don't let the joke run along, getting mighty sprightly ahead of you, strong stroke those spokes and become a muse sick wish with this man. The terrain is the map, scraping jiggly-wiggly pedal-metal, this is designed of the wide end of the track with lots of latitude for your longitudinal attitude readjustment frock cemented into the zone relegated for and scored in the free-form stratosphere invisible ink paste gumbo stilt throw. Charts? What charts? Improvisational is where it starts and barring one elegiacally perfected tune room at the 'Rock'n Roll Station,' reaching seekers freaking for a fixated melody embellished plea are left in the lurch sans the search.
Squelching neanderthal parrot. Charlie parks one lip asleep skip town. Blubbering chiggle-chaggled and you feel the teeth dangle impressionistic sputtering farts, soft squawks, rippling retorts amidst staccato sharps poking the jolly jester in the arse. Feel the breathing become part of the music, flittering mouse patter leads the trail to comforting and familiar, yet obtuse squall and response alliteration saucier and fluffier until pup-puh-puh-pum-pumpum-pumpeh makes smile.
Machinery. Strained kite string lollygag horn trill. Randomly interspersed impromptu comments seeming story in French. Before you know it, your shift at the fantasy avant-garde factory is over and you can go home to the next song.
Making a horse neigh. Staying the course lain. Jacques Berrocal has the power to ensconce with his deft use of independently structured spontaneous creation. These are ideas that may have been toyed around with before, but were not dropped to trollop unsuspecting ear cheers releasing fears that continual beat impressions are necessary for the mind to make connection directions with what seem like obtuse chortles colliding in space, bouncing, and the swerving wending the same path immediately.
The doormat reads 'everything is possible' - you are at the original 'second pirate session of a strange wax:' "Rock'n Roll Station" - Nurse With Wound covered this tune to great effect, naming an entire marvelous album afterwords in nepotistic frenzy alluding to the steady dour retelling in repetition of Vincent Taylor accompanied by steady 3-notes-bass thrung-thum-blugneah wheel spinning crank clickety-clack interference bells, whine on rubber, words slightly morphing elongated syllable perplex. 'Jacques bicycle is music to my ears, do you remember?' Final wheel screech click-tap matched for tring-a-ling fades to coughing, and frog, lighter, poured water, laughter, muted bike vamp, utensil plated tangle stop.
'Bric-a-brac' is over 25 minutes and takes the entirety of side two into submission. This is opus direction, outre style. Dining with pleasure, listening to all the sounds around wooing for flickered dispersion. Mounted violin parapet intermittently stroking a straddle, evolving rubato in anomalous supportive crumble. All in chip fin and disquieting escapes the face making master powerful, juiced avant-pounce by the ounce, poured in a splash at a time. Incorporating footfalls, plate wobble, pot lid organic percussion, string struck precision childlike mercurial atonal pluck, megaphone grunts, metal sheet wobbler, requisite pterodactyl shrills from elephantine monster spills of sonic departure ticket-stamped voucher felling the glacier hearts for the 'out-there' that is easy to feel 'in-here.' Sterile is not to be, cacophony reigns supreme and ropes the corralled scene warm blanket sheen away to cortex inner drum posed leaning to. Not to think of no, periodic shifts to rudimentary follow me simple attention. Getting surprised and being able, on follow stride short sublime, to then reel from getting trapped in the belly walrus shell again, a piano comping akimbo percussive scatter jagged swagger introduces itself and a winding horn innuendo distend blow. Coiled runs afterwards and the the the return of the sun melody 3-note upright-chunked stomp from the only verifiably structured tune, now accomplice typewriter in tow, rhythm sectionally lunch lurch unclothed jubilant quasi-musical stenography replete - a new narrator recalls fragmentary discussion of another whole whale of a history tale all together, a French accent giblet freshly mustachioed story: 'interested simultaneously by moving.. and by noises... like music... [...] you know what, I am just waiting for Vince... I mean, Rock'n Roll Station... I'm just waiting for him... always in love, but is not.. here.. anyway, go home, go on.. [...] during a surrealistic demonstration by the camelots of the king... what a strange thing he is making me doing... what a strange story.. you know I don't know what I am doing there.. you know, really... what a strange story, what a strange thing;' fade the flock out, big hawk lands throned. Swoon baboon new golden dongle spoon soon, put your cap tarts on, staring ague eyes open meden agan agar-agar. Everything is possible and this album just made it probable. 'We can do what we want to do.' Hear here.
1 comment:
It's like eating pounds of caviar out of a bucket at one sitting.
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