The Oscillators know time and run from its 4/4 embrace. They are the X addressed by stony palms, an organ like wet newspapers, squid lodged in a frantic throat by a single suction cup. Former creamscum become froth, tin cups banged against the bars where divorced parents dream of stars and pin them to the barrel.They made us dance, the crazy fools, like seltzer on a carpet stain, their starched white flirts with graphite and graffiti. Behold the beekeep's cruel suspicion of their honeyed buzzing petals. Just feel those threads, you fat cats, and make way for the sizzlelean, the raw and the cooked, the forty-five millimeter mechanical pencil drawing of a village whose inhabitants rock. Pressed sound, sharp and metal creases, the platonic ideal of a Cadillac fin cutting through waves of static.Don't waste your time, Jacky, dusting your go-go chute-by the time you get here, they'll be statues near crisp pagodas, interrogating form with logic and escalation, riding in radio station wagons, passing you by.