Pitchfork Media Guest Reviews pt. 1: Brent DiCrescenzo
Mr. Darsie's Time Machine
Super Za Explosion
[Titor Records; 2006]
Rating: 0.2
In my 22 years here on Earth (I don't count the postnatal years where my cognitive dissonance clouded my judgement ((ie: ability to dress myself (((ie: in thrift store shirts that advertise a YMCA dinner party in Des Moines 4 years before my birth)))) I had never seen a battery on the subway tracks that wasn't a Duracell. 22 years of rotations, passes through steaming tunnels snaking through this godawful city. Mr. Darsie was hunched over his Erector Set. Za pounding. Complete silence. The mustachioed fat man in his underwear sliding, gliding through the space in between tables. One gleaming, gaping maw after another.
Opening the album with "Old Time Rock and Roll" must have been the worst decision since Tomás Estrada Palma offered his dirty pesos to the sky. The dark matter in my soul was swimming into a dimension where a grown man can't grow a tail in front of a silent audience. Waiting. Watching. The emaciated around me held their breath in a communion. One cannot fathom the blast of energy that awaited them that perfect night. The human part of me wept in awe.
This is when the gods bowed down. For further testament, Erik Estrada and I both suffered debilitating bocce ball injuries in the same full moon cycle, while listening to "The Old Tyme Paz Blues", in different parts of Brooklyn. From this day forward, one can never treatise Prospect Park without mentioning the vampirric, stoic motions of that track's namesake. Buying and selling emotion.
Valhalla fell that night, that beautiful, drastic, beautastic night. But here's the reality. Do I want to buy in to the dogma of this dogZA? You have to ask your own inner Christ: How many times can you play the same fucken chugga-chugga riff on an album? If you ask this guy; 10000000000 times.
Embarrassing.
Fuck off.
2 piss-poor riffs out of 10.
Super Za Explosion
[Titor Records; 2006]
Rating: 0.2
In my 22 years here on Earth (I don't count the postnatal years where my cognitive dissonance clouded my judgement ((ie: ability to dress myself (((ie: in thrift store shirts that advertise a YMCA dinner party in Des Moines 4 years before my birth)))) I had never seen a battery on the subway tracks that wasn't a Duracell. 22 years of rotations, passes through steaming tunnels snaking through this godawful city. Mr. Darsie was hunched over his Erector Set. Za pounding. Complete silence. The mustachioed fat man in his underwear sliding, gliding through the space in between tables. One gleaming, gaping maw after another.
Opening the album with "Old Time Rock and Roll" must have been the worst decision since Tomás Estrada Palma offered his dirty pesos to the sky. The dark matter in my soul was swimming into a dimension where a grown man can't grow a tail in front of a silent audience. Waiting. Watching. The emaciated around me held their breath in a communion. One cannot fathom the blast of energy that awaited them that perfect night. The human part of me wept in awe.
This is when the gods bowed down. For further testament, Erik Estrada and I both suffered debilitating bocce ball injuries in the same full moon cycle, while listening to "The Old Tyme Paz Blues", in different parts of Brooklyn. From this day forward, one can never treatise Prospect Park without mentioning the vampirric, stoic motions of that track's namesake. Buying and selling emotion.
Valhalla fell that night, that beautiful, drastic, beautastic night. But here's the reality. Do I want to buy in to the dogma of this dogZA? You have to ask your own inner Christ: How many times can you play the same fucken chugga-chugga riff on an album? If you ask this guy; 10000000000 times.
Embarrassing.
Fuck off.
2 piss-poor riffs out of 10.
This entry was posted
on Tuesday, May 30, 2006 at 2:18 PM.
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