Torrents of bubbles, radio static, voices inside voices inside screeching electroguitar-workday-restroom-hideouts: “make atomic bombs, take out the neighborhood, baby, that kind of thing…”

In each corner of the sound something else, simultaneously going on… inside some kind of tinnitus…
Get a crowd of people with tinnitus together inside the hull of a giant empty brewery tank, and get inside their collective auditory pain: this is what you get – “Das Capital Crime”!

- Where’s your accent from?

- CNN!

There’s a Balkanization in there too, hidden rhythms of stringed Balkan progressions out of the hills of Sarajevo!
And, well, yes; the henhouse catches fire, and a few loose remembrances of Stockhausen’s “Sternklang” flutter around aimlessly like flakings of the Exclamation marks of Capitalism in Manhattan Island; that piece of land that was bought from the Americans with some worthless beads…

In the bewilderment, in the gushes of ash, you can faintly detect a brittle, absentminded glockenspiel nursery rhyme, like a sudden memory from your childhood flashing by in all the disastrous destruction of the moment, as Shiva dances and the Hopi prophecies of ancient times suddenly – with a mighty AM burst of power and hell – come overwhelmingly true…

Tinkling pianos stuck under the wreckage of the musical structure talk to each other in broken chords over cell phones, from air pocket to air pocket, as they slowly suffocate under the crushing tuttis of this dump truck composition.

The layered, unconnected, desperate lingo echoes the best ventures of Minnesota sound poet Erik Belgum. Heavy weights shift position and everybody gets caught in the action, smoldered “down to the last radio, with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies, good to eat a thousand years”.

The fluttering of mechanical wings - valves of wind instruments - is oozing off the moisture from human breath.
A comically jazzy piano rolls out its spirals of ebony and ivory, entangling you like the arms of an octopus, strangling your cultural hang-ups right out of you… as Russian Revolution factory whistles of forced heroism resound the Dictatorship of the Proletariat.
I hear the sonar echoes of bats crisscrossing above the fall time city bridge, while skeleton constructions rise over the waterfront…

The music mixes human flesh and concrete into some hybrid being of the City; the City transformed and focused in blood and dust: “Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows…”

In the end; a cup of cold coffee left behind at breakfast, gulped down in an unflinching PM.