"Music" is form. At the higher levels of energy, beyond even the electronic, there is no form. Form is pure energy limiting itself. Form is error. A forest creature approaches the protein vats. He dips his spoon in and slops up prophetic credentials.

The clusters of notes are like pulsing electron grids imbedded with Van Allen Belt movies. I guess it's metal music. The earth is a core of molten metals, covered by a thin layer of slime (soft, vulnerable organic tissue). Metal is good. It performs its own technical function. Metal has individuality, soul. Plastic copies the form of plant, mineral, metal, flesh, but has no soul. Androids are plasticized citizens who carry themselves like wallet-size replicas of Captain Beefheart robotization moves. The title track of this album is a plea for lingual relief from plastic decalcomania.

Beefheart's sonic poles are entomological/archeological. Numb metalloid drones contain scrapings of bone-mealy lemur tongues and cool dinosaur rock modules ("Smithsonian Institute Blues or the Big Dig"), contrapuntal tarpit anthems to our fanged ancestors ("Petrified Forest"), plus generally atonal insect-agony and high-class Bug Music even invaded by those broom tongues I mentioned earlier ("The Buggy Boogie Woogie"). All this sounds best listened to over Sennheiser headphones. The earpieces are foam rubber not plastic and that's important for picking up all ambient muzaks here, for instance the kitchen zinc smelt reference 1:34 into "Japan in a Dishpan".

The only person I know who buys records wouldn't buy this one (I got my copy free). But that's OK. Captain Beefheart is probably more famous on Venus than Stan Kenton ever was, already.