Claire I was, perky-perched all parrot-plumey on my peppermint porch, fresh and kale-crispy from a salady cucumber & ginseng facial peelie-dealie, all like-a-mama-fox-preggers kitted up in a Bo-Diddley-dacious en-samba-semble hand-stitcherooed and festerooned by my own dandy-dancing digits. Claire hates like wet woolies to be a brag-drag (or a drag bag), but humble-mumble aside-saddle, no couturier is flurrier. Claire, my doily darlings, is a steamstress. Arm and a leg me with a plummy plumber’s worth of pink piping, a caboodle of sequins, and a hot glue gun, and I will construe a raiment fit to raise Nudie’s ghost and frazzle it with dazzle.
I was so clad, Dad, a technicolor tuck-and-pleat treat, porchside, when tra-la-like-trumpets, yonder-fonder came my pouty little postie, my luscious little stamp-tramp, my very rent-to-own Priority Male. He swung wide sweet chariot my overwrought iron gate, strode up my hollyhock walk, and with a like-a-titanium-toybox heavy-lidded gaze-daze, rendered me blender tender. My vestments became divestments. Honor, out of breath and having only just now returned, prevents me from telling more. And then, like a splish-splash flash, o glorious chiseled flash, he was gone, leaving only a padded mailer behind, from whence slithered Dirt Ball’s Turn Up The Barn.
I retired to my conserva-not-tive-but-tory for an afterglow glisten and listen, and can like a cheerful rifle happily report that if you’re weak for bleak, this is the malbum for you. “So Far, So Long” makes retreat a jangly treat; “Holy Ground” horripilates the nape; “Call Me Charity” is drum-thumpy and guitar slithery; with that warped-not-woofed piano, “My Surrender” is Claire’s kind of gospel; and song to song, singer Wes Freed is the real indeedy-roo lead deed.
Claire loves like Pop Rocks in NyQuil the depraved misery of Turn Up The Barn, and she doesn’t want to be like an old phone cranky, but as a card-carrying member of the minutiae militia, she must pick a nit. Nothing grates like bad cheese on the ear the flip-flop copout rhyme, i.e. Dirt Ball’s Joshua Camp being very not-nice-naughty in “Call Me Charity”, frankensteining “hook, line and sinker” to “sinker, line and hook” just to snooker a hook with “book.” Mr. Camp will be excused only because of his virtuous virtuosity throughout the album, although a glorious little spanking is not out of the question, and may be the answer.