I would love to imagine, while he hallucinated, this guy also heard something like Grails'Burning Off Impurities album, out April 24 from label Temporary Residence Ltd.
Not Friends of Dean Martinez, not Morricone Youth, not Ghost, and not even Calexico have been able to update Ennio Morricone's best work (Giu La Testa; The Mission) and retain the psychedelic atmosphere and compositional sense and intelligence Morricone usually offered. Grails must be listening to EM, but also to John Fahey (who doesn't), Can, Mermen, Einsterzende Neubaten (sic?), Hawkwind, all sorts of obscure late sixties psych shit. Come to think of it, Grails' 2006 odds and sods collection Black Tar Prophecies wasn't half bad, either. Surprisingly, Pitchfukk has slept on them, entirely, at least evinced by a search of their site.
Of course you know how to sell it, Ms. Raab -- especially if you're also one of those semi-literate shitheads who believe animals bring out the humanity in all of us. I got a proposal for you: a cat lives in a slaughterhouse and gains a taste for prime rib after licking blood off of his whiskers for 19 years. Or better: The secret cat-mascot at Guantanamo. Heartwarming. Or: A dog is locked into a bomb shelter with his survivalist owner, who dies of a heart attack, and the dog starves to death because he's too stupid to eat the man before relatives find them; meanwhile, he recalls their wonderful life together.
Animals have nothing to tell us about ourselves, except when they eat, kill, or fuck, three things they perfected long before we walked on the show. Everything else? Like God, love, or humanity? We invented it. Animals like us because we save them the trouble of hunting.