Run outside,
In the desert heat
Make your dress all wet
– And send it to me.
Bloody your hands
On a cactus tree,
Wipe it on your dress,
– And send it to me.
This, for me, is rock music at its most concentrated, free from fears of restraint and sterile backlash, ready for consequence; the marriage of macabre and comely poetry. Lust of the obsessive compulsive (the starved), and the damning of separation. The trudge and delicacy of jangly guitar, ushering through support, exploding in rising chords that dangle on the precipice of climax. The space between the parted is where the perverse dream. Cactus is the pleasure of suffocation and the capture of heat. [Buy Digital.]
Ahh The Pixies! Niiiccce.
I wonder if the indie rock hipsters are into this stuff?
We are.