“Here we are, trapped in the amber of the moment. There is no why.” – Kurt Vonnegut
“They’re all Brazilian when you turn off the lights.” – Drunk Guy at a Party in College
Aside from expansive knowledge on most valued aspects of human life and, of course, my legendary humility, my ability to walk into traps is one of my finest personal characteristics. I just have that great knack for being at the right place at the wrong time or the wrong place at the right time or whatever place/time I need to be to get directly hit in the nuts with a soccer ball. But for every racking that life delivers and every pickle I get myself into, every so often I find myself finding these booby traps are really pleasant diversions full of surprises (or some bullshit like that).
BFM and Terrapin’s Spike and Jerome’s Collaboration Ale Cuvee Delirante Barley Ryne (El Duderino if you are not into the whole brevity thing) is a mess. A splendid, disjointed mess. Malty and fruity. Sour and spicy finish. Super light for a barIey wine, far fuller than a sour, and flatter than most beers and several varieties of pancakes. I swear as I sniff/taste this baby I can get anything from cherries, tobacco, plums, candy, rum, vinegar, wood, and blatant indecision. Stuff is like the morning after a Christmas party on a pirate ship. For all its cloying eccentricity and nebulous taste profiles, I find myself ensnared and growing fonder and fonder of the oddness as I get more and more into the drink and the drink gets more and more into me.
So where the heck can I find a weirdo album that matches this weirdo concoction? Brazil apparently. Os Mutantes first album is the perfect match for this one. Revelling in its own peculiarities, the psych outfit’s record still doesn’t sound like anything I’ve heard. Crisp tropicalia, fuzzy distortion, carnival swirls, pastoral strings, and lyrics that I assume are either sexual or satanic or both. Enchanted by their goofball charmz, the beer and the vinyl work together to make me light-headed. A perfect pairing for an inescapable time. Stockholm Syndrome sets in. I’m theirs. I’m brainwashed. I’m dangerous. I’m Patty Hearst with my machine gun, my Brazilian glam make-up, and my damned sour barley wine.
These two misfits are steel-jawed bear traps for the senses. Maybe it is the possibility of the unknown that keeps me walking blindly through these woods just waiting to step on a trigger and hope for the best.