Sleeps in Oysters We Kept The Memories Locked Away Like The Beetles Of Our Childhood, Or How To Appreciate Someone Who’s Always Around. When Mum meets Pram beautiful things blossom from urban soils by the Thames. First, a recording of someone, possibly an an ent-omologist or someone who plays one on tv, then a flowering into a glitch symphony with choral vocals, a shy whisper in the valleys and the highs kept humble enough to keep them from turning silly. Twinkles, high pitched squeals, loveliness on every petal tip. It is so splendid and marvelous. I tried to steal this, I could not find it, I paid for it, I don't mind. I made a list of things that I've heard new this year, I have been a bad boy. But then my pay has been frozen for about 18 months, who can afford to take a chance on the likes of The Deer Tracks and Color Cassette? Turns out they were worth the risk. Who knew. First song, fairy tale industrialism, so very Victorian, filled with drams of progressivism. The industrial revolution as whispered by a tender shoot to a libra. Next track. We move to flies. He sings this. Are they a duo. Fractured electronics, overexposed, disorienting, but an anchor in the voice, nice. So very nice. Walk into the forest and overturn rocks and find ancient synthesizers made by the mysterious nay telepathic inhabitants of the forest before they were subjugated by the evil Titans of yore. Kronos, Ouranos, Hyperion, Johnny Greenwood and the mother of all despots recently resurrected Gaia. How much will Joebama USA spend to appease Gaia lest she unleash her formidable powers on a superstitious public, he must look within the grooves of this record to find salvation. Now washes of synths and quiet, and dreams of water. I can recognize several variants of flies from the fairy kingdom power point presentations, for my unimportant work. I am not an entomologist nor do I wish to play one on tv. I am filled with Christmas. Flies seem inchoate, to plagues and murder and all things un-twee. But I need a license for flies to be able to contaminate our patch of earthwith the miracle of holiday joy. When I arrive to work on Monday there will be miles of revelry crushed by disappointment. It's an ugly day to be sure. People are not nice. I was sent a bill to clean my ears at the doctor. It was for an outrageous fee. I would have run hot water in my ear on my own had I known the cost. But doctors are not businessmen. Allegedly. They always dress in fashionable wares and have expensive eyeglasses. I shop at Wal-Mart for both. But I don't like Wal-Mart. I aspire to be able to afford to shop at Kohl's soon. Third song. More glitch atmospherics, run these songs on an oscilloscope or NMR spectrometer and try to elucidate what makes them so magical by the peaks and troughs that appear as if predestined by a queen of melody and goodness. Now some plucked bits of melody underneath the brutal nature of the track's foundation. Sounds like a typewriter, so anachronistic, a typewriter in love. A marching band in a Autechre video. Repetition is key to hypnosis. I find this incredibly lovely even as the walls are shaking from dissonance, like a mite beneath a butterfly's wing. I mean to write several entries today. On the Deer Tracks. They do sound like mum. They resemble recent model Mum, which is odd, since that last Mum album seemed to whiz by unnoticed even as it was beautiful and amazing. This is not snow music. This music sounds forged in a cauldron of Arachnid passion and intensity rather than precipitated out of the ether by some endergonic process. The atmosphere does not warm by its existence, but the mind ruts deeper into a tranche of introspection, insulation from the winter of your discontent. Pretentious. A spoken word bit with twinkles and recordings of previous entomologists trapped under glass, enticed only to lecture for their freedom, with poesy and whimsy. Inside we place large replicas of insects made of pvc and given human names like Floyd and Darryl and Therese. This feels like a suite, a whole, the bits are shed from the splendid organism that is this record. "Beetle Fat". Is this what Cristina Rosetti had in mind? I had a semi-classical education but it did not cover fairy tales with the new 'understanding". Have fairy tales always indoctrinated children? I suppose they have. But normally with seemingly benign concepts of morality and golden rules and hygiene among the victims of the black death. Now rhymes armed with matters of disputed science and esoteric dietary habits hold sway. Next to the last song. Marvelous things with multiple voices, As if Pram made pop songs. Voice is exasperation. It's a novel bit of electronica, ho, puns, look at me I am a Lucksmith. Have you ever wondered if the Lucksmiths assemble a song title and then write a song to accompany it? A Sober Thought Just When One was Needed seems to fit that description. The Lucksmiths are boring. Pleasantly boring, but this, unfortunately, precludes them from ever being interesting. Ask them a question. Will you receive a sense of defiance from the answer? Unlikely. Ask Sleeps Like Oysters a question and they will try to be as clever as a personal ad in the Onion, not very, but you will find their annoying habit of thinking they are more clever than they are endearing, unlike Onions, and then you will listen to this album and be bowled over by the imagination bursting from the seams. Last song. Crickets. I love this record. I love every record it seems. I apologize for that. Teletype machines. Glitch cliches. Hums and madness and nursery rhymes and lovely voices. All very twee. Read the Gregory and the Hawk entry for my treatise on "forest twee" versus "regular twee". It has very little to mention about fairy wings and garden gnomes. This is just marvelous. One of the releases of the year. Warms the soul, I lied, earlier, endergonic for certain.

"A frisky lamb, and a frisky child, playing their pranks, in a cowslip meadow, the sky all blue, the air all mild, and the fields all sun, and the lanes half shadow."