The Lemon Twigs
The Twigs are legends – teen sensations, k pop stars, BrotherLovers, Twiggy Cola Lite. Their songs exist as cultural freebase. Cocaine, water, baking soda, and DNA. (o.k. )
While the White Smile Face People appoint Garage Girl, Digital Bass Face or Shitbag Boy as the new FreakoftheWeek, the Twigs have lived 26 cat lives from here to japan making real life bonafide Humans rejoice in the pagan art of Magick Pop Freebase. There are millions of fans, You see; the twigz are more Popular than You, they are Greater than Your Favorite Band, they are a phenomenon.
And now it’s been more than three years since they showed up with their masterpieces and the kids went berserk.
You loved “Meet the Twigs,” you loved the fucking monkey.
Well Music For the General Public is the ultimate ride cocksucker.
Because the Twigs heated up the bottom of their spoons and let their chemicals morph into oil-slick-rainbow clumps. 12 of them. Each song is Twigs from concentrate: seven times more concentrated than the initial juice.
A noseful for every junkie, sparkling as the cream smeared across the mythical holy Ghost-Teen’s high waisted vintage-ass JEANS.
THE TWIGS are celebs. They are in Rado’s dusty bat cave, one of several spots they’ve been chipping at their fuck puzzle. They have nothing to prove. They don’t care. Everybody who’s the face of a designer clothing campaign is because the twigs passed first.
//~ Michael lives in the studio and lays down his tracks at night. He has become a reluctant studio engineer in the Twigs’ home studio in Long Island and can run the machines himself. He is working on the album’s opener, ‘Hell on Wheels,” in which His searing cartoon visions of dirty screaming teenage deathkids ripping down the Strip parade us into into the throb of the album. He mopes around. The subject matter of his songs is dark. His songs are Masterful and bombastic, exploding and shining black, while his lyrics seem preoccupied with incest, broken homes, loneliness. Welcome.
Now It’s daytime. Brian’s in love. He and his girlfriend Anastasia have shown up after her shift at Squaresville vintage clothing store. Brian sprinkles sweetgrass around. Brian’s songs have become Too Good – they are DMT jesters of themselves, cartoon crack. You can wind a Brian Song up and watch it go BOING BOING BOING down the hallway with art deco birds towering above, snirting their snorters into snakey red inkwater.
And here you are, in your stupid fake clown costume, with your Twigs merch, hitting your vein again.
You clown, you fanboy. you love this shit.
Admit it sucker. you need this shit.