IN A MILLION INSECT STORM, A CONSTELLATION FORMS

A line from possibly the greatest song of all time ever, written with words.

No, its not the Beatles.  It's not Bran Van 3000.  And no, it’s certainly not the theme tune to 1985 British animated series The Poddington Peas.

Its Brian Eno and John Cale, possibly the highest form of creative lovemaking since bread spread butter.  A unnatural formation of 80s electronic wizardry, a string section stolen from heaven and the moving, swooning, crooning of Mr Cale himself.  A philosophical entente, a musing on the imperfect nature of being.   No more a music track than the sounds of angels are ‘music’ or a ‘track ’- but without knowing the language of infinite celestial beings, we can only use humanly formed words.  Words created with simple brain matter, stutteringly slobbered out of meaty face holes can never capture this essence of heaven.

Listening is self mutilation when the creation of the gods is audible.  Returning to normal life is impossible.  It should be illegal.  This track should be banned and Brian Eno should be hunted down.  John Cale should be got.  We should get him.  Relentless, ruthless and eventually fatal praise is the only punishment suitable for men who steal from the heavens.  Torturing and pleasuring the minds of man in equal measures means madness for the masses.

We are not capable of safely absorbing sonic wisdom of this level - so I will try to divulge information that can be processed by mortal earthlings, and will not leave you in a puddle of your own confusion.

Here we go - I have space this month for tattoos.

And with every tattoo, there will be, at minimum, one playthrough of the heroin-like multi dimensional experience described above.  A ‘song’.  THE ‘song’.  The ONLY ‘song’.  An atheist hymn.  A reckless choir chorus of infinite joy and sadness.

Book in now for guaranteed feelings.