Review Summary: I know I'm late but
Today is my dog’s birthday. He’s 9 years old. That’s 63 years in dog years if the old heuristic still holds. I’m pretty sure it doesn’t because I think I remember reading a news story or some journal article that disproved the “theory” but f
uck whoever wrote that. Thanks for destroying my childhood. I can still remember when we brought him home. He was so adorable and playful. So scared of the street. Now he’s majestic and just doesn’t give a f
uck. I think it’s nice dogs don’t have to work. They don’t have to worry about money, retirement plans, providing for their families or any of that s
hit. All they have to worry about is accumulating swag and making sure to s
hit outside.
There’s a picture of me holding my dog when we first picked him up. I had spiked hair. I thought it was cool back then because that one dude on The Brothers Garcia had his hair spiked and he got girls all the time. Now I think anyone with spiked hair is f
ucking lame. That’s inevitable though. You either hate who you were, or you hate what you’ve become.
I guess what I’m trying to say is f
uck time.
Public Strain is an album lost in time and space. The compositions are formless. The guitars and drums are utterly disjointed, always searching for each other in the haze of unmitigated feedback and noise. At first, the album seems like it should fall apart at any second, but under further investigation it reveals itself to be perfectly cohesive. Each track perfectly bleeds into the other creating a journey from absolute confusion and chaos to clarity.
I guess the only problem with the album is that to fully understand and appreciate it you have to completely disassociate yourself from time and space and wholly immerse yourself in the expansive sea of noise. Soak your luffa in the pool of feedback and make a nice rich lather and apply it to your body. Let the disjointed guitar lines pull you apart so you can examine what’s inside. Understandably, most people aren’t willing to make that kind of intensive investment because afterwards, chances are you’ll never be the same.
God, I’ve become such a pretentious fa
ggot.
