Decorative Feeding, In The Red, 2014
ďTake it from me, orbitiní the Earth over íní over ainít all itís cracked up to be. When I was asked to hop on board a Soyuz headed to the International Space Station (Assignment: Critical Observation), I reckoned thisíd be the trip of a lifetime. Space, the final frontier. And how íbout that view? But now I feel like Iíve been here that longóa lifetime, that is. You know, the food ainít much to speak of, plus I gotta constantly make sure I donít make no crumbs, else they might fuck up our air breathiní filters. Crumbs! The things one learns. Drinkiní ainít no fun neither, íless you get your jollies sippiní daquiris from a straw out a plastic bag, like some swishy, doe-eyed Deadhead. And donít even get me started on hygiene issues! I believe I could take a life for a proper bubble bath right about now (I miss my ducky, too). Which is all just a lumberiní yet apropos segue to the matter at hand: this debut LP by Watery Love.
ďNow, any right-minded corncob south of the Van Allen Belt knows them three precediní 7-inches via Richie, Siltbreeze and Negative Guestlist smacked kernels hard, and that smolderiní ferocity has naturally been carried over here. The glow íní throb whatís got got is as much the byproduct of the eternal bioluminescence of Iron Cross or Third World War as an appreciation for the corroded, fractoluminescence exuded once upon a time by Chain Gang, Slow Death EP-era Leather Nun íní The Gordons. Sure, their environment might seem cold and uncariníóeven downright sociopathicóbut behind that facade of David Goodis-like grimness are four sodbusters chompiní to have a good time. When singer Richie Charles hollers ďIím a skull!Ē who among the masses would not rush headlong to get a lick off that boney pate? It ainít about Rofinol, people, itís about the roof, and how far can Watery Love raise the fucker. Unlike you dickheads, Iím sittiní pretty in the catbird seat (what part of me beiní out to space did you miss?) so let me say, keep it cominí! Higher íní higher, nose to the grindstone and all that. Donít worry, Iíll stop ya when ya get here. And one more thingódonít forget to bring a six pack. Weíll need it.Ē óRoland Seward Woodbe
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