Telekinetic Yeti
Abominable

DRUGS ARE BAD #2

I’ll be brief and circumcised (semi-quote) as the streaming strip of the latest episode of Temptation Island Vip 2 is almost complete, and I still haven't taken my daily dose of boobs, screams, and various expose.

The Telekinetic Yeti hail from Dubuque, Iowa (which is a bit like saying from Montenero di Bisaccia, Molise) and resemble those tripped-out friends who have understood absolutely nothing since seventh grade, and we’ve all had to deal with them at least once. Those who are destroyed against the wall at the back right at a Red Fang concert and, even if Nino D'angelo & the Nightfisters were on stage, would still think they were watching Pink Floyd when they played at the Pyramids.

I picture them as two longtime friends spending time playing FIFA with a vaporizer, like a shisha, precariously perched among their smelly cheese-filled balls. One of them has what seems like a small cellar (or a furnished garage for you real estate class enthusiasts) with entirely red walls where they have intense jam sessions, play PlayStation, and constantly smoke joints with the condensation exhaust pipe of the DeLonghi air conditioner. They always have dry mouths and often don't speak for hours, with Blood from Zion on an insane volume loop and a fog curtain that, when you open the door to the outside, feels like you're being sucked out, like Alien. This refuge of theirs is a different dimension, a sort of ‘'...in the Telekinetic Yeti garage, no one can hear you scream!!'’ An incredibly well-taken high. The mental trip of listening to Vol 4 ten times in a row. They're so laid-back that the album is almost entirely instrumental, because neither of them is clear-headed enough to articulate the syllables well without feeling the pizza dough in their mouth like the great sewer of the cattle market of the Foro Boario.

There's not a damn thing peculiar or particularly exciting to add to '‘Abominable,’' except that it’s a stoner/doom Sleep-dependent debut like so many others, with massive sound/a few other sounds, some touches of acid and psychedelia that would make Gaspar Noé of Enter The Void pale, and a wonderfully questionable cover. Despite this, for some inexplicable reason, I’ve listened to it thirty times in a month, and all thirty times it gave me a supraperineal priapic charge that hasn’t manifested since the days of Nacho Vidal’s Runaway Butt’s trilogy.

There are no more fervent or lustful conclusions to draw, gentlemen, also because, by now, the Confrontation Bonfire of Temptation is starting, and I've already glimpsed a couple of absolutely impressive behinds that would undoubtedly overturn the standard judgment criterion of a music album and the entire human race. Yeti included http://telekineticyeti.bandcamp.com/