Brought together through mutual hateful things, Al, Pete and Mego are the real deal. Dickinson's real deal, if Dickinson was in the motion and the deal was success.
Their sound is developed. The look is finely tuned. Splicing milk atoms to reveal the music of the curd. Plump hot rounded music that threatens the soul. If you listen to one song the space is not paper. Nor is it not make. Nor is it a turmeric. It is hot yet buff. It breaks you down, looks in your eyes because you are hopeless. It circles the fear that you call home but doesn't care if you never see it again.
You scratch the ground for your ear. Young boys sit on beaches where we work and play. They wait for tunes to be delivered on small plates made of sulphur. Lest we forget, Courtauld weeps for lost days. Surrounded by your worst fears, it all becomes too real. Now pull up a chair and sit there. We'll tell you when to move.
Watch a professor sucking splinters. It's not worth it but you have no choice.