Sophisticated, with telltale smarts, carving a curlicue path through ramparts in the heart, Tuna Helpers create an oasis in the dark. A gypsy wraith lullaby sets the tone, echoplexed and haunting. Calliope tilt-a-whirl dialectics shape the kinds of gifts to come in a bliss-blitz soaked package. Lest we hesitate to battle the foggy cosmos here and now, their summer of syncopated madness wreaks havoc. Full and rich, these songstresses orchestrate clever dirges of expression.
Spinning tales in dedicated fervor, this outfit conjures cauldrons of unsuspecting white magic. Simultaneously raucous and tautly restrained, each composition weaves a woozy balance betwixt gothic luminosity and newfound fables for grown-ups. Diaphanous circus esplanade queens wield puppet potentates gleaned from deep recesses of the psyche. Sensations that assiduously belie exultation over darker subject matter overrule any possibility of encroaching despair. Swooshing fluted tentacles flare out from their feverish dream, stronger than a prancing scarecrow escapade. Caressed plucks of inspiration crystallize into saturnalian revelry.
Thrumming a tippled kibosh on the current scene, these fine ladies gleam with future esteem and promise. Reveling in superior production, they take full advantage of sonic placement. At once mythical and yet accessible, a rupture is formulated that bridges soulful expression and easy mass appeal. If music be a transformation of lesser forces, the album can be resolutely successful in passionately reviving a comatose populace. This music makes one glad to be alive in order to be able to appreciate it repeatedly. There is not one false note, trill, nor crescendo.
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