About
Noise is like death; they are both prone to speculations about what might or might not might be there, falsely perceived or deceptively real. They require a free fall of faith. In noise, you may choose to land lovingly on melody or you may stay lost in the technicolor grey sheets of teeth-on-glass distortion. If purgatory were an airport, Oliver would be the voice echoing through the abandoned terminals leading you to your departure, the sky above the runway filled with jets like a swarm of metallic locust. And that bass has got you feeling like riding a torpedo into Atlantis. It's enough to make the kids in back overtake security and rip up the front row seats and throw them into a bonfire because nobody can sit down to this shit anyway. This isn't the music to pick up the pieces, it's about calling bad luck bullshit and shattering that mirror into more pieces than there are empty coke bags in Brooklyn. It's safer than chemicals but it gives you the same high. It's a one sided argument; a thousand turbines aimed at a million megaphones in the bottom of the Grand Canyon aimed at your neighbor's window. Running lawnmowers dropped into a pool full of aluminum cans. A hail of light bulbs on a tin roof. This is infinte night, a dragstrip of mirrors, speed without end, amen.
