"You're all a bunch of fuckin' assholes."
The atmosphere from the tape-deck crackle paints a Mark Rothko vibration, so that when you have listened to his new EP at full volume your ears are undoubtedly ringing and your head is asking you why does it feel like you've just ran six miles in ten minutes? High hats sound like some kind of Chernobyl Death Circus, with the mutated Death Clowns foaming at the mouth, mugging the audience and harassing the women with trite apophthegms like "I will show you a proper good time at your place." But then this scenario is foisted down a purple spiral cup, into a DJ Screw teratoid. These heavily phased high hats feel like going down one of those spiral slides at those old glum theme parks your mom found in an old 1992 phone book, with the paint inside the slide peeling and the vague smell of all the other confused and slightly scared children having all the same thoughts you're having like "when does this slide end and why am I on this declined helix of old silver if I am thinking about when it finishes, thereby defeating the purpose of being here?"
The ashy, muggy smoke stained sky of Los Angles seeps insidiously into the purr of the cassette-tape fuzz. Old Yamaha basslines giggle with Japanese schoolgirl enthusiasm behind the ugly green plastic bottles of litter, a common sight on the streets of LA. Delroy Edwards' tracks have this delirious presence, kind of like having intercourse on an empty stock, or the kind of delirium which a stock broker meets after a long life of spiritual decline resulting holistically in the loss of his family, money, morals, etc. and then unfortunately realising that his life has been mainly based upon chasing something for an unknown reason (thought there must be a reason). It has the warmth of the cliche-giving smile of a recovering heroin addict, someone who is fully realised in the "Take It One Day At A Time" and "Hang In There" the smile bearing a kind of warning to the brutally difficult truths of cliches.
The atmosphere from the tape-deck crackle paints a Mark Rothko vibration, so that when you have listened to his new EP at full volume your ears are undoubtedly ringing and your head is asking you why does it feel like you've just ran six miles in ten minutes? High hats sound like some kind of Chernobyl Death Circus, with the mutated Death Clowns foaming at the mouth, mugging the audience and harassing the women with trite apophthegms like "I will show you a proper good time at your place." But then this scenario is foisted down a purple spiral cup, into a DJ Screw teratoid. These heavily phased high hats feel like going down one of those spiral slides at those old glum theme parks your mom found in an old 1992 phone book, with the paint inside the slide peeling and the vague smell of all the other confused and slightly scared children having all the same thoughts you're having like "when does this slide end and why am I on this declined helix of old silver if I am thinking about when it finishes, thereby defeating the purpose of being here?"
The ashy, muggy smoke stained sky of Los Angles seeps insidiously into the purr of the cassette-tape fuzz. Old Yamaha basslines giggle with Japanese schoolgirl enthusiasm behind the ugly green plastic bottles of litter, a common sight on the streets of LA. Delroy Edwards' tracks have this delirious presence, kind of like having intercourse on an empty stock, or the kind of delirium which a stock broker meets after a long life of spiritual decline resulting holistically in the loss of his family, money, morals, etc. and then unfortunately realising that his life has been mainly based upon chasing something for an unknown reason (thought there must be a reason). It has the warmth of the cliche-giving smile of a recovering heroin addict, someone who is fully realised in the "Take It One Day At A Time" and "Hang In There" the smile bearing a kind of warning to the brutally difficult truths of cliches.
Published on: 31 March 2017
