Like a woozy greco-roman art-deco sun-marine destroyer, "Pollution" is the revolution in sound abounding like a cantankerous cacophonic cloud surrounding the shrouding pale. Franco Battiato's first two masterfully pieced-together reliefs give more respite and resolve than any reconstituted weed or leaf between your gritting teeth. This is and was evermore shall beast. It beat and bleat and breathe avant-garde idiomatically auto-didactically entrenched inestimably on electronic stifled sullen proclamation. In rough-hewn dedication to breaking fashions and hodge-podging his own meshed sonic clothing exterior marked refuting to be sparked by nothing less than cyan matter not no god art alive, striving writhing googolplex cortex brain matter splatter jumble yaya across the plains rebuffing sage and subtly sprayed with the age of 'future we upon us,' this classic from the early year of 1972 and paired up toddy-boo with it's predecessor "Fetus" stressing and genuflecting before this newly constructed shrine spine supper sublime. These are two distinct and spectacularly brilliant albums shining brightly to the foreground of the mind's eye imagination-speak. It is simply no wonder that they are still aeons ahead of their time. He and those works are a haze pathogen to the very core and crux of the creative lifeforce itself - nevermores and wheretofores will undoubtedly not be able to be refracted sharply enough from the stuff of alien threshing heaving the chest, rings the navigation incessant, blessing the present most pleasant.
No comments:
Post a Comment