on the record #6

mars volta – frances the mute

last tuesday, i went to the local best buy to snatch up the new jack johnson. wow. mellow, memorable, rhythmic, works well with the weed…all that shit. and it’s got pictures of mario c gettin’ jack done on wax! highly recommended. as i was perusing the aisle – as i am wont to do when i am in the presence of records – i happened upon the new mars volta, stickered at seven bills…but the price was good for one day only. so, naturally, i grabbed that as well.

what can i say…despite the singer’s [omar? cedric? one of them two…] similarities to geddy lee, i’m digging the whole trip they’re taking. since at the drive-in imploded, mars volta is definitely the more interesting of the two bands that arose from the ashes. if you want the more straightforward rock, get sparta. but i mean, if you want the fuckin’ rawk, then get the supersuckers, right? nah…see…mars volta got that whole art thing goin’ on, and i’m an artsy motherfucker.

[hmmm…if radiohead is the new pink floyd, then maybe mars volta is like the new jethro tull. that means that maybe they have an “aqualung” in them somewhere...yes…fascinating…]

but i am digressing like a motherfucker. so i leave the store…blah blah blah…tasered, inciting a riot, malicious mayhem…blah blah blah…and when i get home to play it…

amazonian tree frogs tripping on the tongues of withered corpse ashes that filled coffers with the new found belief in a clipside fragmented black lung death that started static white light noise in darkened room dust falling from shallowed bones every night every way like drops of liquid into the hands that cradled all of this these broken newborn birds with broken newfound wings pushed from the nest of sanctity in sanctimonious harmony exploding like chrome in the faces of the wretched and aged the wicked crooked snakes sliding on the ground in the footsteps of a bleeding virgin phase slanted sidewalks cracks broken glass puppets in the fountain and the coins in our eyes pay for sanctuary where ghosts walk the freeway on open sores in the center of our third found friend praying like lepers preying like leopards braying like jackals in on the kill hospitable criminal subliminal minded blinded by promises on the shore of a new wave welfare fare well sheltered shielded silences and electricity in the words of a new song that cannot be sung or undone unstitched and fingered an old wound infection let it ride out to hide out inside scars where the bullet was bitten and lorded over by a rule of thumb that sized the stick to do the beating of the new skin to fit in because it’s been ok to observe this kind of control when we’re hunched low to fit the key into the lock let the hair fall in the blood and tell my girl that i love her and that i’m never coming back from the man i used to wish i was when it was cold outside and the ravens ripped and devoured the heart from a lion dying on the plains in pain from green death in the silence that surrounds us all.

yep.