You gotta convince the fools in the pit that...you fell asleep with that thing, your thing, an instrument, your instrument across your chest or under your head, passed out after exploring it with the curiosity of a serial cave diver.
No joke: the first side of this record sucks so bad it ruins the entire album.
Throughout Carry Fire, some coals burn hotter than others, but none flameout. Instead, they move through the skin with the comfort of a warm winter treat, a hot chocolate for the soul.
UMO is kinda like a lo-fi prince. And I’m talking the gigolo of funk, the true king of the Eighties prince: capital-P Prince.
The third album is a pain in the ass, an asshole, a bastard. It broke the Mint Chicks and sent Ruben Nielson scurrying to Portland, Oregon to cache himself in graphic design and commercial art. However, the foxhole he ended up in was a basement studio filled with all the gadgets and toys a growing musician needs.
We may have been too carried away last record not to notice that the now-known Mortal behind the Orchestra didn’t particularly enjoy being high as a kite on a mountainside all the time. Perhaps we forgot why it’s called a daytrip and why we take them. Abnormal days require special cool-down times.
In a sober-state, the Unknown Mortal voice behind the Orchestra would confuse me. He’s flexing Harrison-esque vocal muscles cloaked in studio effects, as if trying hide what is so painfully obvious: the mind-flaying musical alphabet starts with a B-Eatles and the drugs make you see shit, hear shit, believe shit.