The track sounds like it should have a suitably mid-range budget video accompanying it; shots of the vocalist sitting forlorn in empty bars, wandering across a bridge with a myriad of lit-up high-rises visible in the background, looking out the window of a taxi at desolate and unknown streets reminiscing about failed relationships, intermingled with random shots of the band strutting their stuff in some back-alley DIY gig scene, while every time the guitarist rips into a solo we see him atop some high cliff wailing away as the wind tears at his leather trench-coat and peroxide blonde mullet bangs. “Fuck yeah!” shouts the beer-chugging fan as he lunges from the depths of the television room settee and throws his fist to the air, for a moment feeling the inspirational abandon afforded by the soaring melodies and youthful memories that explode across the night.
The B-side, “Angel”; is such a monumental waste of time it’s hard to accept you’re not in some hellish “re-imagining” of an episode of “The Twilight Zone”. The band could have done pretty much anything else and come out unscathed, but they had to cut off their own goddamn balls and record a ballad so foul, so loathsome, that I am told the label manager shot the guitarist dead upon hearing it at a meeting! Hence the band never released anything else, yet believed so strongly in the sack of shit they’d converted to audio-waves that they started working part-time at a local circus where they were subjected to all manners of humiliating incidents. However, this influx of extra funds allowed them to finally realize their dream of putting their own interpretation of solve et coagula to wax, just that the alchemical result was more akin to that of underpants being worn a few days too many more than anything else. Still, one could always practice some practical magick and reverse the disc, basking again in the glories of melancholy tales.
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