Not so long ago, a young Jersey trio of prodigious mad hiphopologists, Dalek, undertook a European tour. How they suffered! Until rescued by an old German kombo of legendary mad progologists, Faust. Transcription of (ob)session follows:
Facedown bass-clown chews through plaster cast appeal and last appeals. Artillery fire falls like fossils, into single phylum. Spinal columns of beats stack, driven home, bent high; remixing bricks, carpets, and windows. In some crumbling rumble's scratch, soundbeast crawls on. Barrel tongues roll years.
Inventory takes itself, junkyard ripples like hide riding a horsefly: Groovation gathers. A thin blue flame suspends, not unlike the aural aura of organist Larry Young, but he died long ago. Miles and Jimi never played together, but he played with them both. It is also not unlike the gas-jet flame Miles's autobio claimed to be his earliest memory, seen across a field of whitest stove top. Atmosphere waits out the needle of such a tiny thrill. But its point has been made. And if the listener's ear-hole cherry should regrow itself, sealing feeling? Well. CDs last a while. This one will be waiting.
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