Emanuela De Paula
Too much work. Let’s burn it and say we dumped it in the sewer. Bender, being God isn’t easy. If you do too much, people get dependent on you, and if you do nothing, they lose hope. You have to use a light touch. Like a safecracker, or a pickpocket. Meh. I barely knew Philip, but as a clergyman I have no problem telling his most intimate friends all about him.
Oh, I always feared he might run off like this. Why, why, why didn’t I break his legs? No! The cat shelter’s on to me. Meh. It’s just like the story of the grasshopper and the octopus. All year long, the grasshopper kept burying acorns for winter, while the octopus mooched off his girlfriend and watched TV.
Ana Beatriz Barros
The most striking thing about St Vincent is how confident it seems: from its title to the opening crunch of distorted drum machine to the gorgeous closing ballad, Severed Crossed Fingers.
Anna Christine Speckhart
Now, when you do this without getting punched in the chest, you’ll have more fun. I care deeply for nature. Guy’s a pro. I’m half machine. I’m a monster. But I bought a yearbook ad from you, doesn’t that mean anything anymore?
In my experience, there is no such thing as luck. I can’t get involved! I’ve got work to do! It’s not that I like the Empire, I hate it, but there’s nothing I can do about it right now. It’s such a long way from here. Red Five standing by. You’re all clear, kid. Let’s blow this thing and go home! You mean it controls your actions?
Moving along… Fry! Quit doing the right thing, you jerk! It may comfort you to know that Fry’s death took only fifteen seconds, yet the pain was so intense, that it felt to him like fifteen years. And it goes without saying, it caused him to empty his bowels.
Oh, how I wish I could believe or understand that! There’s only one reasonable course of action now: kill Flexo! They’re like sex, except I’m having them! Uh, is the puppy mechanical in any way?
Calculon is gonna kill us and it’s all everybody else’s fault! OK, if everyone’s finished being stupid. Then throw her in the laundry room, which will hereafter be referred to as “the brig”.
We need rest. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is spongy and bruised. Say what? Stop it, stop it. It’s fine. I will ‘destroy’ you! Oh yeah, good luck with that. I just want to talk. It has nothing to do with mating. Fry, that doesn’t make sense.
The long, spaced-out fades of Under the Pressure and Disappearing provide dreamy interludes worthy of Tangerine Dream. The decaying guitars and analogue synthesisers create a crepuscular melancholy.