Damn straight, bowlcut. Antarctica finish setting up their instruments. The angels sit indian- style on the cloudy ground. Frank looks around uncomfortably and eventually takes a knee like a winded lineman on a sideline. Keyboards begin sighing and squirting.
Raw drumbeats click quietly underneath, breaking into the occasional frigid fill.
Flanged digital pulsing throbs throughout like lines of trucks splashing through stagnant puddles on Detroit streets. The band continues on in the same second gear. Hollow plastic tubes of keyboard shoot forth. Icy hooks plink along in somnambulist cycles. The singer yawns lazy lyrics about chrome and sky.