When masturbating with your own tears was an up and coming thing, this record spun continually on my turntable. Id listen intently, trying to figure out if the lyrics were ironic with a splash of cynicism, or if they were heartfelt, like being around family and shit. I shudder to think if anyone walked in on me, alone, playing this record. My nude body writhing around, clueless as to what these new words truly did spell out to me.The album opens up, as most do, with an overwhelming sense to continue to understand where and what it is exactly our storyteller wants us to take from our experience. Most journeys start with an urge to find a new place in your own mind, and this record is no exception. I’ve seen the darkest parts of my psyche, and I've spent cold nights alone. My eyes water when I fully accept the emotions of what this record has given me, and the important fact still remains: is there a better record? I try to think of one and I cannot.
Open your heart, and let that shit bleed out. When I listen to this record, I am constantly reminded of the yin and yangs of life, the constant struggle to find oneself in a digital world. I mean, trees and plants don’t deliberately cool you out and get all heavy and beep in your ear. Let us live in the trees, eat the fruits of our labors, and turn this record up to a reasonable listening volume and sew some fucking seeds.
Get Fat Here
Or:
Tony Plichta is a microwaveable nutrition enthusiast, has a masters in bullshit, his relationship with his moms aint so great these days, he exhales into his bass drum, and thinks that these banana nut bread scented candles are off the chain!
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