Chilled, pox-on-both-houses music. “The man” is ready to clamp down on the kids with his pistol. But the hothead revolution kids are not alright, are paranoid, and are, quite simply, “wrong.” Parental instructions for “children” to stop, cool down, listen to others. Dialogue as submission.

“Peace of mind" surfaces at the moment of excusing (or hiding complicity with) “lies” via non-disclosure. Singer claims no resistance, just that, at moments, he's left "cold" by such a realization. At this moment, not "breaking rocks" but still producing the grit of abject-ness. Erosion, always at a glacial pace. Revolution becomes the moment of the privileged subject's silence, the moment that alterity ceases to be contained, according to Levinas, within a thought.

It's in the ream(ing): the taxes and the infinite dependence upon the creation of artificial intelligence (or video games). Facing things "on the level," sober and mindful, you'll still get taken in a "one on one"; there's no use: "look[ing] down," like transition from apoplectic to sauntering arpeggios, reinforces the state's economy (roughly, here, consumerism unaware of its own intrusion). Even though the world's "8-bit" (or 64 for that matter), going beyond conception would still beg for the pristine, virginal demand. The pentatonic scales and the Pentagon are (still) in the same family, triangulating.

Once upon a time, in the “tavern,” there was singing and dancing, and a sense of real lifestyle choice and achievement of political goals (“we’d fight and never lose”). Politics doubly determined by visions of youth and of the past, cast in amber. Singer proud that her generation, now older, is “no wiser” in this regard. But thought this way, the future is already determined, and it can be nothing more than a reiteration of the past--another version of “the same.”

Following a long kosmiche phase, Tangerine Dream finds a new theme in the mid-70s: “Rubycon,” “3 AM at the Border of the Marsh from Okefenokee,” “Invisible Limits,” and this track. Everything depends on a reading of borders and limits. The border, whether Julius Caesar’s, Georgia’s, or NASA/Apollo’s, is a place of “fear” and trembling (a menacing e-minor dominates “Stratosfear,” for example, which finds the band hurtling toward guitar-based, Pink Floyd territory). One cannot simply overcome the border, or wish it away, in part because it’s the living end.

The revolution must begin along the axis of the normal/pathological, among the chemically “sick.” That is: the revolution is “little” (as small as a pill, a syringe, a puff of smoke [“I smell burning”]), and the stakes are individuated pleasure and enjoyment. Variant of D.H. Lawrence’s "A Sane Revolution,” which always risks spelling anarchy with an “I” (barricaded from within by a wall of feedback).

Peace usually leaves "people in pieces"; professing peace while avoiding the work of peace is tantamount to murder. As a result, the correct way to use peace is to shoulder the responsibility of realizing a world with an "absence of all confusion" on the "streets." "Stop the dominoes" because counting on peace to always be there and strategically positioning it as such avoids the possibility that we're "on the same rope," right now.

The toughest proposition(ing): addressing the Black female social/sexual climber. Escaping "crosstown," addressee is warned that getting over quashes the visualization of shared poverty. Everyone's under the same sun, but righteous admonishment can't disentangle itself from the "don't mind," otherwise there wouldn't be the admission that "higher ground" would be nice. Appeal to diurnal ordinariness--and salvation--is impossible when the city (all of it, in the case of New Orleans) can only stave off flooding while it continually sinks. Degenerative ascetisism, and digs/digging/ risks possibility for a confrontation (while drowning).

Receding or advancing are the only two directions negotiation can face, fixated on the pulls of incorporative rapture or (repulsive) dispossession. Lead bass spins out the figure with mid-range root note anchoring unidirectional runs and doubling both vocals and percussion (in different registers). The synthesis is no better; like "görrtho sôpparelli" and "násso cassôbelli" in chorus, the matter of articulating a position is as fundamental as the tongue attempting to dislodge the other verbally. What's in bad faith, however, is the blight of man's figuration unaware of this constitution. Another ruin, without expectations beyond prospects.

Hawkwind-style, tom-tommed space-out, tinged with laughable (in the good sense) guitar and bass amateurism. No doubt: the music sounds different in 1969, and the clothes are different, and the hair is different. “Someone told me times are changing, but looking all around it seems the same.” Space/Prog already politically exhausted as it enters the starting gate: there’s nothing but “buying, selling, running, hiding,” even if the tunes are more ambitious (though “none ever wished it longer,” as Johnson said of Milton). Someone had to admit it: this worm is not turning into a butterfly. It’s just plodding along.