Gee that drummer has to be sweating a ton! You know how poorly ventilated
rehearsal spaces, clubs, and studios tend to be. And the singer's really,
really pissed about something or other. What a novel emotion -- fury. No one's
angry these days. Rebel. I wonder if he wears a studded belt when he screams:
"Who cares if I wanted to be someone else? I find comfort in this because
there's none in you. So redesigned you can have it all!!" I'm sure he'd
stay in key were it not for
having to croon about despair, alienation, and emptiness. When you look as
though your briefs are soaked with a flesh-eating amalgam (examining the inner
artwork) you've just got to display physical/psychic anguish to keep it real,
aight? This type of apathy isn't about smiling. I've somehow managed to get
to track eight, and it all sounds like the same song with little binary number
gaps. The drummer sounds ready for CPR by now. Math-core, like all other genres,
begins as
a fascinating concept, but you can only squeeze so much blood out of a turnip.
My wastebasket is hungry again.
(Jason Thornberry)
"The
Physics Of Air Hockey" mp3.
