The steps are quite easy. Open mouth, stick out tongue, and carefully place the tab of $5 blotter on your long pink licker. Wait. Wait a little longer. Then, in zero time flat, you and what used to be your brain are clock stopping, Rip Taylor tripping balls along the colorful arc of figment magnificently configured by the Black Moth Super Rainbow. Far from acid wash burgs like Berkeley or the Haight, this Crayola crew rep Pittsburgh, homeland of radical inventor George G. Ferris (the Ferris Wheel) and the mammoth warehouse of weird, the Andy Warhol Museum. Postulate a planet governed by The Flaming Lips who communicate in a warped dialect only be translatable through sophisticated space machines operated by AIR. The translations of such an intergalactic expedition are heard on the Dandelion Gum, the fourth frequency of nebula originating from BMSR.
Kids are so sugar smacked on cinnamon Ritalin that their real names left their paradisiacal thought processors eons ago. Aliases appear on their alien identification cards, and rather than Chip, Erin, or Robert, these outer space cases prefer to be classified as Tobacco (the primary circuit board, voice activator, song modulator, writer and production coordinator) and that of Power Pill Fist (master bassist and Atari enthusiast), Father Hummingbird (Rhodes and monosynth maniac), The Seven Fields Of Aphelion (monosynthetic soul), and Iffernaut (drummist). Call yourselves whatever you UFOs like, just don't jam a laser up my pooper.
Dandelion Gum is the most delicious stick of strange candy since the piece that turned Violet Beauregarde into a blueberry. A perfect snack for your freak face to sour over, especially if you have been cold decoding Deerhunter's "Cryptograms," tweak reeking like the early sounds of Grandaddy, or religiously wronging with Wagon Christ.
Like the flashback crackle of a 70s television theme song, most of the spastic action lacks all obligatory exposition, plot and storyline, culminating in some shit scrambled crazier than a psychotic egg breakfast. Noises pop and instruments sizzle. Electrical outlets burn working overtime to actualize a hypnotic snap of atypical turmoil, perfect for headphone kids to fully flip out to. Attention spans will happily fail to follow along this distorted safari of trails with vocodor winds that scream like mentally retarded voices played back upside for a bent sound that is truly out of this world. One dose and instantly you yourself feel like the primary doctor who willingly chopped up Aphex Twin, Happy Mondays, Autechre and immersed their waggish vitals in a vat of liquid LSD.
Humans with immaculate brain cells, pink and primed for perfect think, need not bother with this atmosphere-puncturing asteroid of pandemonium. This sort of heteroclite meteorite must continue to be withheld from United States Government, and cherished only by highly mental, mutilated music admiring motherfuckers. This arduous excursion is nonrefundable and like Doctor Emmett Brown said when he created a time machine out of a De Lorean; "Roads...where we're going we don't need, roads."