The shirt the bassist wears prism breaking light on the others drum and piano switch the beat goes on a prog seance from the seventies with incandescent light show wild stars don’t fuck your sister stop I know where you were the sneaky bass crawling like a gecko up the wall of the start of the song searing grand spacey keyboard like a saucer with a flat Cale sings like California autistic intervals queer like Gary Neumann nasty La Peste vocals marquee act at The Rat in ’77 

Crank’s got a raw appeal skeleton circus player playing thumbtacks on a book of French lyrics a common apple polished and small with shades of green on white speckled red 

He’s Sui generis a genuius of his own realm his poetry is excruciating  like Frank Zappa baked over a can of Sterno

But weird words coalesce rhythms accrue so new you can’t see through it like Howl when it came out he’s in the slam mode but he takes it much deeper