I'm going to assume that you are reading this on a Saturday afternoon and not on a Friday night when I'm actually writing it. I'm going to assume this for my own sake, because I like to think that the people who read my blog are cool, with exciting social lives, and not loafing on the couch reading blogs when they could be out with friends or getting laid. Regardless, wherever you are when you read my endorsement of it, your life will feel like you've dropped ass first into an illegal underground rave while the Club Angels EP is rattling the cones of a nearby sound system. The four-track banger is a collaboration between producers Jensen Interceptor and the ludicrously libidinal DJ Fuckoff. This little album is nasty, and it knows it, and it wants you to know it too. Its unabashed, brash, and confrontational presentation is as liberating as a pair of boltcutters comping through the chain that keeps a horny, junkyard-dwelling rottweiler from living out all his most prurient fantasies with the pure-breed sheltie next-door. Ghetto-tech gilded rave beats whirl in sharp, circular circumferences like propeller blades guiding a payload to its payoff. Explicate invitations to freak and fumble are signed, sealed, and delivered by the lyrics over grinding, impatient grooves that drive these tracks through one sweaty debauched juncture to the next, accompanied by daggering electronics that intervene like a haze of javelins, piercing the hot-air balloon that is your prone sense of inhibition. Let Club Angels EP help you get down- by yourself, or with a mutually consenting partner- as if nobody is watching... unless someone is watching. In which case, you should probably get a room.
