Plenty of wit, pseudo-Gregorian-space chants, 4 Theremins and a microphone.
The Subliminator growls a poetic narrative over sonic blips that sound like they originally emanated from Hawkwind or Throbbing Gristle. By adding his poetry to a combination of Theremins, vocal processors, and phrase samplers he somehow perpetrates a naked, nocturnal, sensory mugging. His “Howl!” hilariously rips passé art-tourists with a serious global and planetary challenge. “Opa-Locka” lays bare well-honed space-rock roots. There’s a stab at lust-angst on “Exploding Hearts”. “Paper Cranes” is tender and believable, a fittingly circular piece on the depressing predictability of domestic violence (though I wish he’d given the phrase “too beautiful for this world” a wide berth.)
The Subliminator resembles Lemmy’s unemployed barber and in real life he rides to gigs on a motorbike. Good then, that he happily pokes fun at his tough guy biker image on “Yankee Girl Mojo”. The fact that he performs in the SE, out of Atlanta, makes me like him even more. That said, my visions of him playing behind much needed chicken wire are probably a stereotypical exaggeration. That’s a pity, because I’d pay to throw ironic bottles at his head while clapping with one hand. In conclusion: wit, pseudo-Gregorian-space chants, 4 Theremins and a microphone, or something. There’s a great poster (which of course I now can’t find) with some Pabst Blue Ribbon imagery framing an image of The Subliminator that is somehow perfect. As he says: Mission Accomplished.