Fucked up C3 of stone-classic bafflement from America’s greatest living weirdo visionary nomad, Carlos Gonzales. Far, far, far away from the relative sanity of his art-thrash days in Dynasty and Byron House, Russian Tsarlag captures a couple of the bad trip sing-alongs he was pushing during his last doomed leg of U.S. shows in December/January-ish. Drugged monotone ramblings about egg sandwiches and bleach parties over incompetent hand-clapping accompaniment. Naked, disturbing, minimal, and insane. Anyone who caught one of his shows from this era knows what I’m talking about. Green slime face paint, Manson-damaged lyrics, and underground music’s most charismatic moustache. For fans of living life in a straightjacket.