Intelligence Quotient

Finally found a music obsession worthy to supplant the Mars Volta liason. Yes, it's Yes. Too bad this rip is a glitchy mess. That's why I'm on soulseek.

Surprisingly straight transcription.

Voices are lost in parsecs of woods. Half eaten pills in dreams.

His age is indeterminate. Leroy's. Brown.

Circuitous drunkenavigations.

Living on borrowed time. Suburbias, already sepia-toned, but how often can I believe what would destroy politics? Staring dumbly down the barrel of apocalypse - it's a barrel of laughs. Homeless, working for the mob. So it's real. But what? Buried in a church organ's wall of sound. Chooglin, sounding, organing. Soundboard. Bored of sound? Banging, mainlining, soma, euphoria. Mainstream is in the bloodstream, blissstream. Line, line on a star, over the lino, like what black god brought me to. Premonition of streamroll fogged past blanquetext. Robitussian was poetic once. A Tenth of flexeril.

This album is mindblowing - it's like I'm hearing almost exactly the kind of sound I envisioned I would have if I developed everything as I'd hoped to. Wow, wakeman. Wow. But the guitar is what really arrests my attention. And the bass. And the drums. This is like Rush, ELP, and Liszt collided to form a superdense mass that collapsed in on itself producing a singularity of ROCK!

A shame about the vocals though. They're not bad. But not that good. Kind of vanilla. No personality. A far cry from Cedric Bixler, or even Geddy Lee. Or even Greg Lake. Lyrics... I dunno. Something about getting up and getting down. I could write way better lyrics. If they didn't read like philosophical treatises, that is. Or teastises on chromatic disintegration.

Chooglin and rueing the day you ever choogled out of my starsystem. Afterburnination. Gospel spasms in epileptic fountains.

I could quote you a quote on your intelligence, but the question of the quotient is confounding me. So I'll act awestruck, cause I really am anyway. Just don't expect me to remember what it means.