When — and it Shakespeare writer-not-rod comma Will — comes to snarkle-sparkle, Claire rumble seats to nobody although and behold it like flipping hipsters has-been deep-seated repeated that she will tumble in the rumble at the jettison of a Stetson, a predilection for delectation in dilection which she neither fies nor denies although for every cowboy up she prefers a firefighter down (like-sitting-on-a-mirror upon reflection, Claire pleads the fifth, although a flask will do the task). No season save saffron suits the spangled entangle spiffier than spring, and thus and plus this morning Claire hit like a crazy daisy her torchy little porch at a brunchly hour dressed for phlox in her equinox socks all Aprilly daffodilly only sadly like a flat sack to find like a barb-wired balloon (wink, think Barb Wire pricked) that the sap has run and took the sun, leaving like naked trees spring hung half-sprung buds unbudged, sky like a beached Rapala overcast, vernal turned infernal, down-in-the-dumping like a truck Claire to moon (woefully-soulfully, not callipygically, although she certainly impertinently can-can) like a shopping savant listlessly midst the misterless mist.
Finding herself more stark than snark, she couch-slouched the corpse and pulped literature of the day listening to Uncle Monk’s Uncle Monk by Uncle Monk. First of leather stitcher, let us like mesclun endive in to endeavor also too to like a mugger disperse all dunder-wonder at Tommy Ramone strumming not drumming — as if Alice Cooper had never duffered a driver, as if Lemmy Kilmister had never leathered the Welsh Assembly.
Uncle Monk is not fiddle-Dee-Dee. This is bluegrass sans sass. Phlegmatic trumps frenetic, even in “Round The Bend”, the happy but not slappy first track (“You bring your sorrows, and I’ll bring mine/We’ll toast those sorrows, have a real good time”), and the banjo-a-go-go second track (Claudia Tienan’s vocals sweet Nyquil in the moonshine). With pout over shout, “Mr. Endicott” is “Take This Job And Shove It” for cubicles.
Like a lower case clairvoyant census worker counterintuitively, upper case Claire found herself (that’s twice today — nowhere near the record, for the record) grooving on the smoothing and soothing, composed by the composer composure. The aforethought as in preponderance of the album is like a pineapple doleful, which is sweet. Like a lightened lambkin wether (what the h?) it’s no-drums doldrums (“Mean To Me”) or cardiothermal (“Heaven”), the beauty in this beast is that it is gentle, Ben. Claire loves like bunkerless smokeaters her rooty-toot moods, but she is in a moody-mood, and is going to let Uncle Monk play away all day.
