Here’s a waterslide that doesn’t have quite enough water so your thighs sort of stick a few places going down, and when you get stopped, you notice the joints of the tube, which makes you realize the green growth on them, which is also where the sharp, scratchy sensations on your thighs are coming from, the lengths of pipe pushed apart by algae and moss growth that is resistant to chlorine.

Portland noise, broken English keyboards, indiepop from Oz. The usual, what you’ve come to expect. I hope. We hope. You hope. Hope is all we can do.

When everybody wants to go to heaven but nobody wants to pay, you start in Detroit and end in New Haven, via Lagos by way of Tokyo.

Wherein we explore how lo fi divas, ethereal 80s goths, and the happiest electronic band of all time intersect with a song on the radio in California’s central valley.

Choking on dust, turning into a monster, playing really long songs that are either about drugs or meditation or occult practices or the inability for a rational person to tell where the world ends and I begin because there’s no such distinction.