Dredd Foole

Daze on the Mounts

by Daniel Spicer

13 February 2007

 

Ever pour liquid LSD directly into your ears? Man, that’s one helluva trip, a strictly audio freak-out, y’understand. Time I tried it, the sounds started dripping, melting, coming apart, like curtains opening, showing me what was behind the stuff we usually take for reality; huge, gauzy, billowing clouds, phasing in and out of range, pulling me side to side like a moontide waltz. There was this tambura drone underneath the ground; a golden haze rising; some tart, stinging telecaster riding impenetrable invocations. Yeah, s’right, there was voices, too. A strange sludge of voices, all speaking in rock ‘n’ roll tongues, like they was trying to dig up Elvis—you dig?—put a crown on his head and march him down the street all Herman Munster arms and stiff legged. Here’s the thing: someone said their freedom was gone but they talked about it for so long with such a wide-eye, beautiful, monomaniac, unhinged obsession, they was proving themselves wronger and wronger the longer they talked. Ever hear death talking itself to life?

Daze on the Mounts

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