Tuesday, 14 December 2010

Band Review: Beautiful Small Machines

A pretty, but excruciatingly dull woman corners you at a party and says, ‘these are funny jokes:…’ They are recited to you like hollow grey Latin from an aging and weary monk. None of the jokes are funny, and you have heard nine of them before - not funny then either, but told better, with an apologetic self awareness. You feel patronised that she has spieled all this bad shit at you so hopeful of your adoration, especially as someone equally as vague-looking as her is sitting just behind you, a bowl of cheese balls resting in his distressed denim lap: surely a better target. She must think that you never go out, or read, or have any other friends to tell you those sorts of jokes. You drink lots of wine to tolerate this human dust, and end up sufficiently tolerant to go back to her apartment. Her apartment has a poster of Cat Power on the wall, a woollen and bearded eunuch asleep on the sofa, and some retro computer games spread wantonly onto the otherwise spotless floor. She takes you into her room and kisses you wrong. It feels like you are kissing your sister, or an ape raised by humans, or a reprogrammed robot. She takes off her clothes to reveal that her body is worn smooth like a pebble. She has no genitalia, but she humps your flaccid penis in a grim, misunderstood mimic of human lovemaking. Suddenly it occurs to you to fake an orgasm in order to get her to stop - but it is already too late: her bony pelvis has laid your loins to ruin. You pass out from the pain and enter into a dark parallel universe of echoes, fire, and the music of Beautiful Small Machines.

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