Local Motion: Skeleton Warrior/Pharaoh Faucett Split Seven-Inch

Local Motion: Skeleton Warrior/Pharaoh Faucett Split Seven-Inch

Skeleton Warrior/Pharaoh Faucett
Split Seven-Inch
(Roofless Records)
rooflessrex.com

I like my punkrockliness questioned frequently. I like to have my goggles muddied and destitute in some narcotic hell my HMO won't cover. Somebody, quick! Get me my carburetor dung goggles! This shit is punk as an acid wash of pseudo-psychedelia and maybe not-so-fancy drum machines. We're gonna need a catheter.

Roofless Records manages to do it again, seeking out the extreme weird of what already is weird Floridiana, these guys have it made in the shade with some ditties that start up a certain way and end up way out in right field with the special children chasing daisies and pollen and whatever you got.

You know the feeling of a funeral, when the casket goes into the earth and you can no longer associate with the thing that might've been your friend? Right when your body goes cold? When your thoughts are elsewhere? When you think it'll be all right to fantasize in the shadow of church about some whore you might've dallied with and then the scent of wet dirt permeates your nostrils?

That's it. That's this split. This is Heaven and Earth and the cosmology of things as yet undefined, these are lumbar regions of an unknown lover, these are poetic schemes masquerading as "experimental" ditties awkwardly titled "Sister Hologram" on the Skeleton Warrior side and "Let's Kill Something Delicious" on the Pharaoh Faucett flip... these are things we can agree upon.

And they both have an exquisite corpse guiding along to make it symbiotic in nature; they both honestly start off benignly enough that you might be fooled into thinking some punk-rock swamp's about to happen, and then they both degenerate into cacophonous noise that does actually satisfy. It is pride in execution; it is ready hand on the helm. I wish I could go on forever conjuring more words for you.

But I can't, and I won't. This shit sells itself. The cover art's by the dynamic Masha Falkov. Sarasota's more than just clown colleges and weird white folks. Or not. But here, for a brief, glorious vinyl moment, it is so much more than that. Lester Bangs' corpse rattles a bit. That's good. Real good.


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