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ZOMBI-2


ZOMBI 

"Shapeshift"

by Octopi Mills

Here I have something of a project that  I a little history for. Should I treat this as a progressive album or as a music in itself? Or should I treat it as a man hoodwinked; under metaphoric blindfold and feeding at a buffet of various foods… rubbing the breading of fish off in an attempt to feel for a soul in a world gone to variation and artifice, or bumping a cane into a well of gravy to divulge its identity? 

Perhaps, what I feel is old school synth, like a 1980’s affair, and it recalls old movies that were made to turn a buck, and were forgotten in their momentary heat, though it jogs in little red short shorts alongside "classics" to some. The sound comes forth like a big piece of clunky technology that has been outdated and replaced in a world turned to convenience and saves space, thus believing itself to be resourceful and smart. And it must be true, though the sounds here jog on with big hair and the tight clung fashion of gymnasts. As I have never removed the blindfold I am seeing it again for the first time like a babe:; men with headbands doing jumping jacks and cunning athleticism as they do sit ups and keep running on and on, the dying veils of the yellow sun bright and sarcastic upon the  transient city. I recall tasting the lie of a certain soda for the first time in cool, dumb youth; the burn of the carbonation and suddenly there are neon colors around. There are indoor pools for dipping in like sauces for pieces of meats, and TV sets to prune back wild, rustic thoughts, as if to be groomed for something unforeseen as of yet. 

 The promo reads something about the music being performed live, and I can't break the spell: the vision of men hopping around in wind breakers and doing things in soft gymnastic fashion, and I want to pull the plug and allow this to go to better places, if so to be had, though I cannot. It winds on, and on, and hurts me in ways no straight-up doctor can find nor cure, and I daydream of reaching for a service pistol and shooting out my computer screen before putting one in my own  squirming brains. None will understand these words, and will mistake them for scorn....as the thing dies, so does a part of myself and it is a part that must be made to better withstand such forces.