. issue XI : i .
The cover art of Electric Hawaii, Kandinsky Foundation rayn’dee Color Wheels that will populate alleyways and gutter once the leaves have all fallen from the trees, (right before Thanksgiving Break), is a modern minotaur, avatar avuncular. Out of a realm, in a room of spacey unease that in the twisting narrow corridors, for manner of passionate pursuit, is the slip out hard pack sleeve, cover design and disc itself blocky: heady color singles. (CONNOR SEZS: Technically is the anti-plastic stance that harkened back cardboard consciousness of THE ALBUM known in time itself in groovier ditch dug disc format: wear and tearing at the sides in convenience evolution.) Such is the sensuous experience of handling the album itself, beholden to.
To listen, verbing the thing out instead of nouning it to the background dinn djinn of sensory hopscotch, Opossom has crafted a perfect working soundtrack of silence to passengers in a car, a sound tsunami, a bombra_radadill spices provincial blend; satiation at saturation. This could also be because I forced myself to listen in classic 1980’s Maxell fashion. (CONNOR SEZS: What? Oh, I know that dude.) And as the valkyries rode, I sputtered to life.
What does it all sound like? Obscured vocals are second to the discovery of sound, keyed into secret-walled garden. You might not know that “Girl” is one of the key words in this honeycomb you’ve been waxed into, it is actually not easy to discern the vocals above the piping organ. Circestral cielo ceilings could have a hard time caring, as all manner of instruments parade past your ear drums and leave with the sudden shattering static fridge buzz. Struggling to catch the sounds as they spin out, Madame’s organism encounters every slight of orchestral reprise, “Girl” builds into swells at the chorus, breaking into that buzzy hummable pop of the motherboard, the electrical grid; motoring sitty sounds. I woke up the morning after to the opening chords soundtracking subconscious of each of these songs at some point–but that first morning, it was the destruction pile-up collosalamtomoy “Girl.”
“Fly” has ended our association with the prologue at (mmmmmmmmmmmmm–) dropped into inner tube a lazier planetarium concert of reclining bucket beats. The organ cricket cages and trebles instead of percussive, basstacular treblenious trinity. Buzz comes back when the backing vocals vibe around within the tomorrow always goes drumbeat and crest chandelier, building from the chorus, and a ringing end down riverbend. What a rhythm it is. Passing through a main town, catching a castle on a hillside, and maybe stopping for a few shots of absinthe, you’ve had to have ingested something, smelled glove, spiked special sauce (/r/ is ——> that-a-way): introspective isn’t the word. “Blue Meanies” steps up the level of the rapids, and still keeps everything safe for awhile, but this, this, my friend, is flying. (iTunes gives a tinkling Schroeder piano cartoon snare pitchy bend beat remixed au Opossom; but the original is incredible. That would be a great song to surf to without a surf rock riff.)
Is not the mark of the surf the rhythm is gonna getcha? That drumbeat serves curl.
Our lady airlines freefalls out for the prayer of “Getaway Tonight,” waterfall mind erase (citrus shots, hint of lime), and there’s no earthly way of knowing which direction we are going. Charlemagne’s tribute you gotta belief in, the circus has finally magically set up in stationary checkpoints within the velocitous ‘visceration, offering some slight hope that the freefall will not have an impact or a fatal future. You want to know what is going on, because the dominant emotional roller coaster does not carry a significant lyrical mantra; Jeff Goldbloom has forgotten it, and the music speaks soft hints you don’t want to miss. At this point, “I want to get away tonight” is about the clearest english vocabulary you’ve heard, providing your deprivation chamber has this on high blast. What a happy getaway, but make no mistake of it: you’re leaving, you’re gone.
“Watchful Eye” takes care of your bruised ego, while the physical impact has failed to prove your own death to yourself; death is here, without any ceremony or the impact of anything but lifeless seconds known as eternity. The organ has become a thousand electrified accordions seeking election ‘round harvest. On continues meadow for metaphor river inner tubulars; “Watchful Eye” is a fine smashing death dashing to rocks, finding a thermal pocket and filling with air rushing skyward, before floating down and again, crashing whim. Wind spiriting a kite’s caught ballast, kittening struggle into simple machination.
“Why Why” shouts along with a stomping rock raucous, the short funeral keen of energy and life as the accordion ensemble marches along. (CONNOR SEZS: Animal Collective tribal chant meets Trashmen electric public address guit_box.) The mouthy beat boxing is my favorite instrument here. Entropy occurs in this span of time, buying remains from a whole.
“Cola Elixir” has distortion from the get-go, without the Steamy Organ energy, soon reverting to the crashing wave chording surf tinge that dominates the soundscape. Stormy beach, often obfuscate sunny star ‘self, instead slams between (CONNOR SEZS: See above.) What is that sound? Can you sound that sound? The drummer slaps you, without need for safe words, surging along features. The bright sparkling solos of guitar, soaring above the brassy waves. The skeleton now has time lapsed into the future of thousands and thousands of years, dissolving each piece into a molecule, into a shining point, followed as dust mites look at slits of light.
Remains continue the float into the sparse “Electric Hawaii” as instrumental cools down the shore, packing to load a trajectory from that final outlier of this ‘self,’ this ‘you’ on the ‘journey,’ into orbit.
The self finds in“Outer Space,” the diplomatic and alien universe at the end of A.I., not the artofficial hipstar modernism design of julie louis dreyfuss in Beetlejuice (a 2013 space odyssey) but stacks of a library, uniform and cluttered with clusters of these sonic pop sounds, a boiler room finer than any motel suite. The idea of a procession, a parade organ, populates the consciousness again. “Girl” is the introduction to town while “Outer Space” is the farewell, the proper goodbye, Alpine Musical Entertainment Style. (CONNOR SEZS: Most circus fly by night, right? So, not as carnival? Carnivale isn’t even close there.)
Freddy got foam fingered.
“Inhaler Song” showcases the mood for any dialup to the vibrato waves, these Minty after tastes have housed from many rooms, this attic dormer window addition seems underused. This feeling, This end, an empty elysium to navigate, has found a way onto many an artist’s repertoire; rainy day. 23rd/1st. I love the big empty. (CONNOR SEZS: Free Weiland.)
Self says, Self, a thumper twitter pound pates the puree of sonic mash, all the appliances applicated in one scream to suture the sound up. There is no escaping the limits, outer reaches strived for no matter the strife, sonic or any other drive-through. Self, this is a great album.
Opossom plays dead on no palette, RSVP a cacophony of pop sound packed tighter than a drone warhead, dropping to you at convenience behind your favorite screen capture device.
by Perkus Tooth