Blank Dogs – Seconds Blank Dogs – Seconds

Blank Dogs - Seconds

Blank Dogs - Seconds

Blanks Dogs is. And does. Simply. Endlessly. Effortlessly, it seems. Drowning in the filaments between the moribund haze of Faith and the nervous epilepsy of “Shadowplay” but warmer, somehow. Closer. Nearer in spite of the woefully affected delay. Perhaps because it’s just one man. Mike. A gentle, balding record store kindly king of Brooklyn sitting Daniel Johnston in his scarf and love of African masks and the Voynich Manuscript once marked most by anonymity and now suddenly playing SXSW and all the Todd P. trust fund festivals (which I have been assured are getting better by the minute but my beer punk heart has a hard time fomenting as a true and legitimate scene when there’s a bidet where a glory hole should be). An artist, really. A true one, unfortunately. With a vision. A construct. A passion and means. And this record is just one more step in keeping. Four, actually. Tracks that’ll shake you back to the Eighties dream of the bad kids doing cocaine against a brick wall in black leather and sunglasses, 4am. Urban vampires, saddled to their ennui by their soft hands and selfish living. The curse of intellectualism bestowed on them by kindly parents and the promise that if you only go to college and learn what it means to simply BE then you’ll pull an existential leg up and kick the prick right off the map. Of course, it doesn’t work like that. There is no trade in education. Only words. Distant corridors and dusty books where dead men laid anachronisms in the drunk idea that they were necessary.

Blank Dogs - Seconds, reviewed by Charles on 2009-03-28T18:11:12+00:00 rating 3.0 out of 5



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