The Heart Strings Flap Your Crazy Wings. The rain is pouring forth rather furiously just now. The pop songs that emanate from the Heart Strings are mere striplings and are timid little cuties. They might turn to oceans of sand in the calamitous rain shower and was away between your fingers and your toes. "It takes strength to be decent and kind". It's true. The sarcastic world will hear this album and act with derision and as I am now reading the Instinct of the Herd and have now realized that the gregarious instinct of man means that this irrational belief is unchangeable by reasoning I will instead just assume you, the Heart Strings skeptics, are mentally defective. The earnest are to be re-educated. I've only just got to the bit about the mentally unstable actually being overly sensitive and unable to see the intrinsic altruism of existence so my line of thinking here is on less sturdy placement. Second track. Buzzier. Swooning synths, distorted weak sauce voices, it's marvellous. Truly. Third track, more buzzy synths, it reminds me somewhat of a Honeyrider record only instead of a California surfer dude in control it's a library science major trying out for the pep squad. More distorted voices. In the background there are the electrical sprites dancing across the sky, proclaiming history through their vulgar fulgurites. A fall away to twinkles, a tender voice, dreamy female backing vocals, just so incredibly charming. I am weak sauce. There is ambition here. There is ambition towards achieving a sense of beauty for its own sake. I trust in this interpretation. It is my heart's delicate attachment to the meek. They shall not inherit the earth but I will buy their limited edition pressings every day and the on the one that follows afterwards. Fourth track, his voice, a ukulele, the impressions of twinkles, a bit of the Fonda 500 sensitivity on the vocals. There is of course Frankie and the Heartstrings. This hasn't anything to do with them. I haven't yet lost power in spite of the maelstrom framed by my bedroom window, night to day, stillness to fireworks. When I first moved here it rained nearly every single day of the summer. It was a wonderful way to synchronise your biological impulses, the fire caressing the air, the speakers crashing the sky, the the prodigious amount of water causing the appearance of impromptu lakes making me nostalgic for home and forests of mullein and leafy spurge to spurt recklessly. I like rain. This is a truly fearsome storm. I like rain. The Heart Strings would be declared earnest by bureaucrats at Musical Nomenclatura Agency. The songs would be stamped inoffensive and blandished with official speak so as to be properly accessible to the working class. it isn't revolutionary. Revolutions aren't all that revolutionary. I am learning that they are irrational. most of the "furniture" of the human mind is irrational. Belief is the basis for everything. When I tell you that the Heart Strings are endearing and warm and gentle and kind and wonderful and sweet unless you have formed an irrational opinion based on your group you will most likely just accept the opinion of the larger communal organism and just dismiss them. The earnest will be rounded up, they will have pink stars affixed to their chests and their cats will be run over with Caterpillars and people with commercial drivers licenses will be the new politburo. A wheezing organ. A pep rally cheer, drum fills, cleverness, sweetness. I need more adjectives for romantic and charming. Vampish? Enchanting? It is very 1991. It is the sort of thing that the people I loved in 1991 would have put on a mix tape for me, the sort of thing I would have listened to while out walking in a fierce thunderstorm such as this, underneath the utility pylons with dreams of her or her best friend in my head. This is an essentially random take on nothing at all. Du-du dum dum dum. The number one dream of many people now is to be a bureaucrat. This is step one on our road to the Wanting Seed. We all want to work for the ministry. The one child policy will arrive next, not for fear of overpopulation but as a means of reducing the communal carbon footprint, and then the fetishization of homosexuality as the responsible choice and then when you die you become phosphorous. Unless you are a diet soda addict and instead you turn to trypanosomes that swim down the veins of your last sexual activity mate. But perhaps The Heart Strings will save us from our bleak destiny. Clear Channel will force all of their stations to play this and the herd will decide it is good and not destroy this change and instead sanctify, memorialize it as part of the canon, see symmetry where there isn't any and we'll throw Russell Brand into the void instead. The Heart Strings are friends, they make music for their friends, surely their fans are dreadful. They wear hair slides, they wear wellington boots when the weather stays fine and smoke to make their voices deeper. I am a fan. I have just outed myself as dreadful. It is true. My insecurities make me rather difficult. i am off to Chicago soon. I will swim in the pool where Johnny Weissmuller swam his olympic trials, I will be further along in my path to greatness afterwards. i could enter a footnote in my "novel" concerning Johnny Weissmuller and rebel hijackings of celebrity golf carts. It will make my memoir different from the norm. Nice Hangover. In Chicago I will be very close to home. There will be water, the great lakes, my ancestral home. i will walk out into the surf and strip myself naked and wash myself clean of all of the mundanities of life in Colorado. I will remember our ascent as the aquatic ape, descendant of Pakicetus, aerobic and proud/ What does Colorado stand for? Fitness? Fleece? It is difficult to say. There is still plenty of snow on the mountains but mostly people don't seem to notice. If only a Subaru was truly autochthonous. Staring at the snow. Whistles. His voice is generic indie pop voice but in the most delightful meaning of the word. Big buzzy bits now, Don't Let the World Gang Up On You. A song for Dominique Strauss Kahn. It has two parts, the verses and the ecstatic bits. His voice, reverberated, the drums compressed, the world impressed. This is a marvellous, marvellous record. I met someone who may be a member of the sarcastic syndicate. I can alter my behaviour, alter my appearance, I can eliminate my sincerity. I could grow a beard to hide my non-jutted jawline and non-simian brow which betrays my twee sympathies. I am not hairless though. The last track The Watering Can of Love. A very Duglas Stewart song title. Falsetto, churchy organs, more voices, sophistication. Dreamy. When I invade the country club where Mark Ruffalo plays golf I will commandeer the golf course short wave radio station and play the Heart Strings and it will break more than par.