After planning a tour, and officially presenting their idea to the president of Volt Information Sciences, they were dully rejected. They said No way. It feels less intellectual, more visceral, more emotional, and perhaps a hell of a lot more personal now. Corporate reign, never-ending highways, and vast industrial wastelands are their preferred choice of scenery. Businessmen jump out of scy-skraper windows.
Supermarkets promise endless miles of shopping for laundry detergent.
Thankfully, Flux offers their vistas with tongue planted firmly in cheek, as they acknowledge the absurdity of the situation with the bombast of their instruments and the over-enthusiastically shouted lyrics. Still, messages make surprising appearances within the mostly unintelligible shouting and what, in less clever hands, could be a distracting environment. Back to the catastrophic segments. No matter the tempo or the volume, the album sticks by its cast of fuck-up s and contaminated sorts with a highly visual and affecting tribute.