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PINKISH BLACK


PINKISH BLACK 

"Bottom of the Morning"

by Octopi Mills

The said album opens with a sort of cinematic flair called "Brown Rainbow'' that turns into a song somewhere in the way of a same sex marriage betwixt  a poor man's Depeche Mode with a modern Ulver; all the while ordained by the holy presence of an socially absent Boy George. "Special Dark" has all the wit and intellectual artistic disease of someone who collects exotic paintings for their apartment, and it is this special sauce that makes synth modules and analog Euro-synth-pop albums sought after and highly alluring after all these years.

 Songs flop around like someone grooving with a bank of sounds on an old keyboard in a checkered jacket and finding the dark vibes of wearing shades in doors at night and wine tasting as a social pursuit during cool evenings out with like minded individuals. Drums could be real or not; or both, in the hip, transgender bend of the feel good post-chill that involves being a highly evolved human consciousness entity in such a complex world. The sounds spill like bodily fluids on the glossed, marbled night club floor for such entities with better things to do than you or I, and thus allow their instruments to act as tools for their higher selves, as the smell of Paris comes from as much magic as a small vial with which to attract others to that apartment when the fun is done for a little play on all fours. 

The colors pinken the washy sound and artistic canvas like a cavernous,wet meat set for market and cannot be outdone; not outright, but such an act as Beastmilk might. Welcome to the joy of the human arts like escalators and modern building designs; to the sex toys of the human mind and getting high on new, cool, designer pharmaceuticals- whether real or imagined, it doesn't matter now. The experience is like getting a back rub from the smooth underhand of a Roman clergyman; uncomfortable and only occurring in a nightmare caused not by one's own brain, but dark external forces comparable to old Goetic demons. The album sets in like the stunting of a great Asian tree dwarfed by the homo-sapiens need  of artistic expression and like mannered parroting of what is held to be freedom, and boundless indulgence. I would rather die than become this...