Magic Is Might, Part 2

[Thank you for visiting The Wrock Snob and reading this article! I’d love for you to jump right into the reviewy goodness, but first there is some unfortunate business to take care of. It is not in my nature to tell you specifically what or what not to buy and who to support – I tell you what I thought about an album, and if my tastes seem to align with yours, you might want to heed my suggestions. However, I must take this time to personally exhort that you do not monetarily support the bands The Remus Lupins or Ministry of Magic. The full reasons are unsettling and possibly triggering, so please proceed with caution, but if you want the full details click here. Simply put, it has been revealed that certain member/s of both bands did destructive, upsetting, and highly problematic things. While I can see the value of reviewing art no matter what the artist did on a grand society-level scale, I cannot morally allow myself to condone the financial support of these monsters, nonetheless exhorting people to do so. Now it is entirely possible this copypasta’d retroactive warning was placed on a negative review, making this sidebar somewhat moot, but I still feel it necessary to make these matters clear. Again, for full details and rumination click here, otherwise, please enjoy the article.]

This yawning chasm, this Frak Fraco portraitscape that stretches night-drenched like the balding skull of God lay yet unmarked by the Dark and though it does stir us and dons the great Jacket of My Evening I find it empty and with little to write about do stoke the flames of Blood Meridian for a longish opening sentence. If this album were a videogame it would be Shadow of the Colossus without the Colossi to cast shadows or be bosses to fight and if it were a movie it would be Sergio Leone’s without the close-ups or the guns blasting and striking exclamation points of smoke. If it were a smoothie it would contain only one fruit, and that fruit would be grape juice, which I don’t really mean as an insult because grape juice is my favorite juice but grape juice isn’t a smoothie! it’s just a juice. Smoothies should contain several types of fresh fruit of contrasting seed-age and flavor profile and be swirled through with a scoop of chilly ice and about a pint of an interesting juice like papaya or guava or white grapefruit and then be blended for like thirty seconds and topped with whipped cream. They can’t just be juice.

Similarly, remote control cars should always have batteries not just in the car but in the remote control, because even if the car is powered it needs a remote control to tell it how to use that power. If batteries of the appropriate size are placed in both units the car is remotely controllable and the user can enjoy the dervish-like speed and rascally cornering that accompanies a good remote control car but sadly if even a single battery is missing or even fitted incorrectly the user may appear to look like an oaf feebly pushing levers. Not that I much mind frivolity or purposeless pressing of buttons. I will pick through the bones of any record upon my desk and pontificate wildly like a televangelist. Clearly much of this is circumlocution but to review such a piffle though pretty and quite nice is not an activity it is an exercise in abject futility as absurd as Sisyphus and his infernal boulder. One must imagine Sisyphus putting on Split Seven Ways instead. I do believe that music is great and Ministry of Magic’s music occasionally reminds me of the greatness of some music and I believe that music is like a vast glassy lake into which the listener must gaze and often that listener finds his or her own reflection distorted perhaps but made new and so truer but in the case of this album all I see is the crystal azure sky above and we all know that the sky is stupid.

And so if farting is just pooping a cloud and music is what happens when speakers poop tiny earthquakes then Magic Is Might doesn’t poop. And by this I don’t mean that it is constipated and deep within its bowels there grows a backed-up train of poo ready to be vomited toiletward but that it simply doesn’t poop, has never pooped and doesn’t understand the process fundamentally and why other people must constantly retire to the bathroom to make such wretched stench. It has never looked or thought about it but if it checked it would find no hole between its legs waiting to release such excretion, merely skin as smooth as the small of its back. Which is just as well, really, and it would probably be nice to never have to go potty, but for my own part I could never be friends with someone who has never squeezed out a big wet shit.

Oh, and there are a few bits where they rip off whole melodies from other artists, and if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s plagiarism.  See you tomorrah for an actual real review with words I myself wrote. Wrock Snob out.