THE COOKBOOK COOKED ITSELF
A RUMINATION ON SONGS FOR THE GENERAL PUBLIC
No need to crawl around the carpet looking for any forgotten Twig dust – you know damn well there’s none there. The boys have got a fresh new batch for you.
(Soon, the beautiful vermin – dressed politely in Birthday Clown clothing – feed)
The Twigs are legends – teen sensations, k pop stars, BrotherLovers, Twiggy Cola Lite. Their songs exist as cultural freebase. Cocaine, water, baking soda, and DNA. (o.k. )
While the White Smile Face People appoint Garage Girl, Digital Bass Face or Shitbag Boy as the new FreakoftheWeek, the Twigs have lived 26 cat lives from here to japan making real life bonafide Humans rejoice in the pagan art of Magick Pop Freebase. There are millions of fans, You see; the twigz are more Popular than You, they are Greater than Your Favorite Band, they are a phenomenon.
And now it’s been more than three years since they showed up with their masterpieces and the kids went berserk.
You loved “Meet the Twigs,” you loved the fucking monkey.
Well Music For the General Public is the ultimate ride cocksucker.
Because the Twigs heated up the bottom of their spoons and let their chemicals morph into oil-slick-rainbow clumps. 12 of them. Each song is Twigs from concentrate: seven times more concentrated than the initial juice.
A noseful for every junkie, sparkling as the cream smeared across the mythical holy Ghost-Teen’s high waisted vintage-ass JEANS.