What do you get when you give a psychopath a paint brush and he paints the town red? You get nothing, but he gets called an artist! This actual clown may be able to get away with saying the weirdest shit you've ever heard by making it sound like a joke, but you're kidding yourself if you think this nonsense is anything more than the tangental, babbling dribble of a diluted man who has lost his mind. How anyone can identify this buffoon as an "artist" is truly, literally, beyond me, I must confess.

And so I happen to have taken the liberty of sweeping this entire site (and maybe took a peek under the Hood too) and a little birdie named Virgil Thrice said a bit more than his studious self supposed. The obvious gimmick of throwing songs on an album that are more than ten years old and acting like it's art, instead of an excuse to not just make new songs, foolishly compels the egotistical need to list the year each song was made. And if you're clever enough to put all those songs in the right order and listen to each one you start to notice some much deeper and darker realities than just the puffy soap-box politics the album tries to disguise itself as. And as it happens, I am smart enough to do so. You're welcome (to Gotham).