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The night before last, I spent it, overwhelmed with worries, almost completely sleepless. The alarm went off at 5:20, and work awaited me: but with what exhaustion could I embark on eight sweaty hours to earn my daily bread? I'm calling in sick, fottesega, I was really sick for three days in January, and the only real thing that would drive me to the factory is the fact that the production bonus is linked to sick days—it's disgusting, enough to spit in the eye of unions and bosses, but a truly dense frustration that grips you by the throat. Let's go back to sleep.
Now I'm on the toilet, last night I got my nice eight hours of sleep, the urge came strong, and I thought, "why not write that review I've been clicking 'write' on for months, but as soon as I see the white box, nothing comes out?".
Peeping Drexels manage to create an exclusive pop, rich in feedback and acid pillars, clarifying interludes; a dance punk that owes much to no-wave but at the same time excludes it in substance. Luscious funky moments, a slurred and rotten voice but so correct I raise my hands.
So, on this late November Saturday, my gross zot, which is no longer zot, slides away, and as if by magic, exits my thoughts like the crap left my anus. Thank you.
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