Something strange is afoot. Typically, on my short jaunt downtown I would get called a faggot by passing cars. However, something has changed. The last two consecutive days, rather than the typical epithet, I have carfulls of idiots who just laugh at me. Two days ago, this happened three times in the fifteen minutes this walk takes. Yesterday, only twice. I don't know what all this means, and I'm not sure if this is an improvement or not, but it is curious. And speaking of curiosities, this curio of bygone times still has the allure of an ancient artifact that continues to be relevant. In many ways, this album is like a rosetta stone, capable of transcribing British 60s counterculture for modern times. It might, in fact, be the most important Limey psych record of all time. This ain't some bullshit about riding purple elephants over Saturn's rings or anything. It's much more slimey and dark. It has a dirty hippy stink, but mixed with blood and spunk. Punk still owes these dudes.