Age doesn’t increase knowledge. I eat home-baked pizza and listen to the same three records from the past, eternally stuck on repeat. Essential Logic. This Heat. Blurt. I grew up believing a saxophone to be more revolutionary (sonically) than a phalanx of guitars, that within its capricious confines and slinky metallic curves it was possible to blow up a storm of revolution, jarring, grating and lithe. My hands hit the wrong keyboard. I have no control over fate. My contact with the outside world extended as far as games of Dungeons And Dragons wherein fearsome sax-wielding creatures called Uncle Ted popped up unexpectedly, spouting scary gibberish, dancing an obsessive/compulsive dance –always covering the same three slabs of concrete. Don’t put your nephew in the microwave. Don’t put your hand in the blender. There’s no way out of this spiral” when I walk along the street I can only hear a low motorik hum, a flexing of society’s muscles.

I liked to dance, y’know. Uncle Ted was based on the former anarchic puppeteer and twisted, demented, gurning, intense frontman of Blurt. See? The same three groups. Blurt, This Heat…oh, you get it. His minimal devilish, dry humping, confrontational three-piece has been blowing shards of discontent and No Wave rhythmic splendour since 1980: as The Best of Blurt Volume 2 – The Body That They Built To Fit The Car (Salamander) proves. Imagine being Ted Milton for 26 years! Jesus, Fuck! Imagine being Everett True for 16. It really doesn’t work. None of the ‘hits’ are present. This is some of the most extreme, danceable music this side of the good Captain (Beefheart), this side of ESG of the past three decades.

© 2006 Everett True/Plan B   taken without permission

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