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Polaroids Of Androids

Record Reviews


Organ Music Not Vibraphone Like I'd Hoped

Spencer Krug rubbed the sunshine out of his eyes, wiping the excess dew on his "Fuck Yeah I'm Spencer Krug" t-shirt, which — although he'd now worn for 859 days straight — was still in pristine condition. This daily letterbox trip was always a pleasure. Even though he knew the contents would be empty, considering the fact he was the only remaining human being on earth. And had never given either of his three friends his address.

"Hey Moonyface, ya ol' dog" yelled the hallucinatory vision of his ex-neighbour, galavanting triumphantly through Krug's imagination on the back of a glowing white horse. "Oh, James", replied Spencer, knowing all too well his name was in fact Beatrice. Floating above his own body for a second and admiring the scene — with the letterbox now flung open to reveal the stark interior and soundtracked by James' distant, sailor-cursing about Mr Krug's lack of friends — a sly, snarly grin awoke on our subject's face. The kind that inevitably ruptures out the corners of his large crater-like grin, leaking into the world as an unintentionally evil chuckle and muting the complaints of the now fierce figmental mob that had formed inside his mind, demanding answers or, at the very least, a clue on how they could escape their enclosure.

Back inside the warmth of his cave-like dwelling, staring deep into the empty hands which previously spent their days opening telephone bills and love letters from strange, violent fools from the ocean floor, Krug wasn't struck by the overwhelming sense of loneliness that many would expect. Instead he found himself warmly enveloped in a familiar calmness. Even though he'd forever been famous for his lavish and obscure lifestyle, routine had always been a central theme. Something even more important now, with little else left to find glimpses of vague normality in. While daydreaming away hours and years had once been one his favourite pastime, given the circumstances, keeping himself busy was his primary concern.

It was time for the next phase in his morning ritual. Grabbing a fresh rabbit-hair quell, dipping it deep into one of the millions of blood vats he had categorically stored away, Krug began on a new scroll.

The purposelessness of the writing wasn't lost of Spencer. However, the satisfaction he achieved from extracting words from deep inside his brain's abyss' and converting them into long-winded paragraphs, cursively looped characters and morphing letters into disgusting illustrations, heavily outweighed the nagging feeling of pointlessness. Besides, without these over-dramatised sonnets the afternoon production wouldn't be possible.

Food was never Spencer's passion. Thus he always scoffed through his bland, lunch meal at a rapid pace, letting the excitement of the impending afternoon of theatrics outweigh any actual culinary enjoyment. Away from the nutrition and back in the comfort of his swamp-dominated backyard, he directed his actors, actresses, Gods and goats around the makeshift stage, occasionally glancing down at his hand-scribbled notes before whimpering another set of instructions in his emotionally shaken, puberty-frozen choir. While the characters often changed (sometimes even midway through the first act) they always communicated the level of passion that Krug desired. It would be easy for them to over-cook it as well, given their director's often overly-enthusiastic tone and mind-loopingly illogical commands. But the palliative response from the imaginary audience was equally as important. Plenty of in-jokes, confusing plot twists that only made sense if you'd seen his previous 14,000-odd productions and more whimsical, directionless trains-of-thought than you could poke a thousand Handsome Furry Vaginas at. But, yes, it all made sense to those in attendance, conjuring up pleasant bouts of deja-vu and fond memories of similar dialects as they played along with the maestro's obsession of tracing previously well-executed elegantly violent twists and turbulently emotional turns.

While some of the plays were excessively long — allowing themselves to bleed into twenty-six, or sometimes even twenty-seven, hour occasions — there was always a tremendous sense of satisfaction associated with the eventual, always highly volatile, final act. And from there, the days would close as they began. Our solitary figure once more outside, obsessively feeding his disorder, untrustingly disbelieving his own memory and re-checking his letterbox. Before retreating, mildly disappointed in his own short-comings, into his dream coffin to once more drift off into the mundane sub-conscious world. Floating peacefully away amidst the kind of eery silence you only ever get when you're the only man on the planet. Winking at his reflection in the night-sky to turn the lights off, he would always sleep pleasantly, knowing that in a few microseconds time he'd be back, awake and alive, to do it all over again.

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Spencer Krug


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I give this album an 9.0

8 years ago

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