Put in percussion, lots of imported blocks scraping muted bongos, plucked bass beats, empty hollow sounding tones to get your empty ribcage reverbrating. He’s singing lyrics about communicating “without conversation or a notion”. It’s okay, it rhymes with “ocean” and “no emotion”. Electric guitars muted popping an almost tone. Let’s mention sambas and dances from foreign places. Might give you an idea of something in another location. And talk some more about not having any direction. And now he mentions something about “out of focus”
The party’s over, and he almost feels the hormonal surges. Horrid visions of yuppies pastel sugar clumping. Horrid visions of pastel yuppies humping. Dental students and xenotransplantation majors, creating yuppie clone-pups in pink and mint green. From their laboratory test tube pumping. The horns are so sterile, they must be wearing blue rubber gloves, while they read the music and key the notes atmosphering the above. A polyester coated pill popped tune approximating parallel love. Saxophones humming each note on key A real forerunner of Kenny G.
Syntho-lush, synthetic and synthesized, technoglyphic sanitosis layer after layer. Right down to the airbrushed cover. Like Maxfield Parrish and maybe another, it’s going to be this Same Old Scene over and over. He said it before, “Nothing lasts forever.”
(Avalon—Put it on a remote desert island and pray for a hurricane to save us from continuing forms of this aural trephination.)