You sit and stare in your inflated perfection from the corner where you sip at some oily rotating magnet's aura and lie to me.
You lie about Sonny and Coltrane, you lie about Miles.
Pulled out of the ass of the big headed Japanese engineer, sent into the world before you were out of diapers you soil my cluttered front room with your impotent innocence.
You played and played in my ignorant youth, testosterone treason of the pounding beat, you were good for that.
I hear 'Trane and Sonny on that black spinning vinyl and they are in my room and I stand thick skulled with heat and frustration and it can't be your fault, you do your gig better than most cats I know.
Somebody else force fed 'Trane and Sonny to hundreds of amplifier stages extra phase shifts resistor Johnson noise electric fields high impedance points.
transformed from the sheets of sound you were to the staircase for somebody's grandma and back again.
They didn't care, man. When the perfect truth can be black and white, who the hell cares about grey?
Your reconstruction filter box shipped to the west coast and back, its edges rounded in the careless trucks and your stream of bits strayed so far from the initial ideal sharp Niagara they deserved, but you still have more limbs to flail that that rotting fragment of a mechanical age some time ago.
And I stand in my anger and your gritty texture isn't so bad.
|Information updated on Friday, 1 March 2002.|