Steaming Coils
Breaded

Like when you're about to return home and you smell gas from a leak and the neighbor pops out on the landing and instinctively lights a cigarette with a match and before the BOOM! all you manage to say is "mmm."

Like when you jump out of the airplane and the parachute doesn't open and there's no time to think "li mortacci sua" about the person who packed it before.

Like when you went hunting with your friend who accidentally shot you, mistaking you for a boar when you sneezed, and you can't manage to say "what the hell did you do" before dying because a gush of blood doesn't allow you.

Like when you change sidewalks to avoid walking under a ladder because you believe it brings bad luck, but on the other side, a vase falls on your head, smashing your skull, and as you lie there still a bit alive with your brain starting to spread on the asphalt, you recall a friend's phrase "superstition brings bad luck" when he used to tease you, and you breathe your last with a mocking smile.

Like when on a mountain hike, you reach a cliff edge and admire the vastness of creation in awe, and your clumsy girlfriend trips into you from behind and... bye-bye ecstasy...

Like when you fulfill your dream of surfing in Californian waters and you're humming Dick Dale to yourself, and suddenly you realize the shark amputating your lower limbs is on the phone with the company that will provide you with leg prosthetics, and the good manners instilled in you make you think "how polite of him..."

And to stay in California, the sound proposal of David Chrisman, Bradley Laner & company aligns with these unexpected setbacks and could awaken in us the cynical smile of an end that opens to new understanding.

Surely, the musical intricacies have a disconcerting immediacy, but frequenting such divine goodness is disorienting in acknowledging that experimentation of this kind doesn't tickle any rise to niche phenomena.

Steaming Coils are crystal clear in offering a psychological downfall of a disarming lack of support that, in its agitation, plucks the incomprehension we may have when encountering alternative music that doesn't grant deceptions to elitist listening visions. It prevents boasting of knowing them, a nice gift.

Here, amidst various blends of avant-garde rock, there's a mixed fry that bread-coats you with a golden crust that lets us understand that these gentlemen change the oil with every cooking to maintain the fragrance of an experimental rotisserie that wanders in the Dharma. It's no wonder the album is called "Breaded," the breaded cutlets of our childhood...