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BLACK ANGELS
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 Oh
what a wonderful trip this one is, a 4-song rattle n’ drone eyelid-dropper
from a groovy Texas band paying homage to Nico, the sweet,
slinky chanteuse who brought sunshine and doom to the Velvet
Underground, Iggy, Dylan, and the Stones. She
painted Warhol a few strange dreams too, and died riding a bicycle. Now
that’s tragedy, my friends. And nothing captures tragedy better than a
creepy crawly dose of psychedelic electroshock, a consciousness expansion
the likes of which only The Doors and Joy Division could
feed your desperation way back when. It’s like the good Doctor told us
about the “essential old-mystic fallacy of the Acid Culture: the desperate
assumption that somebody, or at least some force, is tending the light at
the end of the tunnel,” because you’re listening to The Black Angels,
see, and all of a sudden there’s a hippy blonde bohemian girl in front of
you, dancing naked and slow in the red and green shapes the lava lamp is
tossing all over the bucket-tinged wall of your pillowed opium den. The
smell of incense floats from one recess of your mind to another, the LSD
blasting your bones, numbing your tongue. She’s been to Berlin, Paris, and
New York; model, actress, singer, icon. And you want nothing more than to
fuck her. And die doing it. ________________________________________________________ |
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-Jeff Warren |