This is what happens when Dave Wyndorf takes a bath in your master
suite and doesn’t let the water out after he leaves. It’s all gritty and grimy
and you have no idea what he’s been up to or how long he’d been there. (Or how
long ago he left.) There you are,
stupefied look on your face, wonder how your life could have gotten to this
moment. I mean, look at it - Dave Wyndorf’s fucking asshair is all over the
inside of your tub! This moment, this revelation, is what has led you to the
threshold of true freedom, where “Drop out of life with a bong in hand / Follow
the smoke toward the riff-filled land / Behold the weedian, Nazareth” actually
means something. And whether that was Dopesmoker
or Jerusalem is irrelevant, because
it’s on the stereo in your head, and this fine Brooklyn morning leads you and
your two pals to take a belt sander
to that tub and really take off like a layer of porcelain. New day rises,
bay-bee, Dave Wyndorf has left the building, and you’ve hijacked his guitars
and formed a cult, a River Cult, following your own weedian to Nazareth,
whatever that even means, dude. I
can’t even fathom the ride, the trip, the adventure. I can only strap on my
goggles and let it ride. And then, wait a minute, maybe that’s Al Cisneros’s asshair instead! Mind
blown. Amps on.
Tape repeats on side B and comes with a sticker and a pin. Damn right you can add a new button to your
denim jacket!
--Spine of God