It's your friend, Vlad Abacus, here with some cultural commentary. I have many outstanding revelations to share with you all on the new Clutch album, so let's get started.
Stand up. Take off all your clothes. There you go. Now, close your eyes.
I want you to visualize a small aircraft buffeted by stormy weather. Using psychic karate, you lash out at the plane and time-warp the passengers to a whiskey-drenched saloon in the badlands of Texas. These passengers are locked in the saloon with nothing but alcohol, pure LSD and modern music equipment. Stop touching yourself.
Open your eyes. You're pointing a gun at Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens and the Big Bopper. You tell them that in the future, there's this thing called black people. They will develop a new form of music nobody has ever heard before, called, "rap." You cock the hammer back and tell them they have no choice but to produce what they think that music may sound like.
Close your eyes again. Summon your killing energy. Know that those time-shifted, acid-ravaged rock icons would produce the album I'm about to review. I humbly present, "Psychic Warfare."
What can be said about Clutch? Since their emergence on the rap scene in the early nineties, these gentlemen have been winning rap battles wherever they go. Children look up to them. Essentially, not liking Clutch is known to be a psychiatric diagnosis in most developed countries. And, in my humble opinion, their newest album is their very finest.
Most would guess my favorite song to be, "X-Ray Visions," as it essentially reveals the mysteries of psychic karate in less than four minutes. But that would be wrong, I love the second track, "Firebirds!" This is a rap ballad about a girlfriend who places specific material demands upon the relationship:
"Firebirds! Energy Weapons! Both these things are interesting to me. I don't care, you you get them, I need them both and I need them urgently!"
Now, I've long since lost count of how many girlfriends I've lost to to not having stockpiled a big enough arsenal of muscle cars and alien guns, but I think the fellas can agree with me, it's an issue.
The album refuses to let you go with the aggressive rap jams. Side A of the record drills on with, "A Quick Death In Texas," "Sucker for the Witch" and, "Your Love is Incarceration," all of which denote the very real possibility of your psychic karate energies being siphoned by vampiric groupies.
Side B of the record begins with the all-intrumental, "Doom Saloon," which nonverbally details the Texas whiskey bar occupied by a very confused trio of doomed rappers. The next two tracks, "Our Lady of Electric Light" and "Noble Savage," are clearly tributes to Gynoid Fibonacci and Chalk Chesterton, respectively. The next track, "Behold the Colossus," is an obvious biography on the Silver Swan, just listen to these raps:
"This world was ours before it had ever known men. And soon it will be ours again!"
The whole thing is drenched with imagery of prehistoric, monstrous dominators. While it doesn't reference pimping hoes directly, the implication is clear enough for anyone to pick up on.
The next song, "Decapitation Blues," is literally a recipe for a psychic karate move. Word to the wise, this year's "Record Store Day" will release a limited collector's edition of the album. All psychic karate champions are called upon to get it, as there's a strong chance the added songs will provide even more psychic karate for your arsenal.
The record closes with, "Son of Virginia," which suggest a vague origin story for yours truly, provided the song is referencing the year 1898, not 1998. Jury's still out. The band won't get back to me on that.
Anyhow, treat yourself and go study this album. You will learn many mysteries about psychic karate and the hip-hop rap jams are a great backdrop for browsing various websites devoted to psychic karate. Any one of them.
Thank you so kindly for your kind attention,