Review Summary: Sarcastic spunk, clever punk, and near-perfect noise symphonies.4 of 4 thought this review was well written
It all starts off as a radio transmission. It is the message received, and it is a False Alarm! indeed. There will be human isolation, a banality in modern communication, and no shame in running out of jokes (not with angular guitar lines like that!). Horns will herald the deterioration of metropolises with sneers on their faces, and obsolete ideas will meet humans' need for fantasy. The production will be timeless and it won't matter what happens in 1998 or 2098; band simulacrums will be around for one hundred years. 'Civilized society' will be challenged with the Last Stands of sinister sarcasm and conceptually concise pieces of art (the victor of the battle undecided).
And it'll all sound so spunky!
Meet the Plastics! The kind family that just moved in! Their son, Justin, sounds like he couldn't care less; his chromatic vocals sound just as abrasive as his six-string. I only wish he and his friends would rehearse somewhere else. It all sounds like noise. The tension in my (flat) world is the same story of my embittered father, looking back on wasted time/failed goals/and apathy/lack of drive. Those ***ing snare rolls don't help either. We've been so jealous of these instruments - they have their own distinct personality in this place, but we do not.
In the future, there will only be sonatas for loudspeakers, performed in cold binary code - silly robot horns handled by humans, or will it be the other way around? The fragile, fractured six-strings will weave their own stories, and the bass will come and give testimony to the whole trial. Lone horns, brazen enough to spout off and give eulogy to us automatons, are still alone at the end. Noise. In the future, we will all be hi-tech-reject-drum-loop junkies. We will reap the consequences of staying tired, lying down. Killing our aggression. My own prescription: forty-six minutes of apathy. Failed Communication. Probable side effects: Forgotten rage, then six-and half minutes of your lungs collapsing and suppressed hatred. The drum-loop junkies march through the siphon of this civilized society, losing their heads and hearts and stamina. You think it's over? Everything is unwinding, and already unwound, pounding into my and your heads saying, No You Don't ***ing Get It Yet. The city is in truth a desert, and we are the cacti. The drums have become rolling tumbleweeds, and guitars are scorpions are subway screeches. The light at the end of the tunnel is, in fact, a train.
Come out the other side (alive, with no soul) ... and celebrate! You should be honored to accept your Lifetime Achievement Award! The guitars have become snakes. Parents and their children line up to applaud - You've been such a great role model, haven't you? The award is a forgotten life, a welcome death - but don't fret, not when the musical atmosphere is this
good, friend. You will be loved and missed; what did you say your name was again?
So what did go wrong? If you don't make the necessary realizations during life, and Death comes, she will come with high regard. You'll be left debating with the ghost conspirators all around you. The realization is that the future is now - but the future of what, exactly? Ah, sweet time. Untitled ending. Make every opinion noisy and clever - don't just let civilization take its course. Justin, Vern, and Sara will help with the rest.
After the leaves turn perfectly inside you, challenge your personal society and the globe.