Just said to Yuoshka and I, in a whisper-shout as inflamed as Avenged Sevenfold's abcesses: "You know, from you people's body language right now a person would think you were listening to metal, but you're actually listening to Coheed & Cambria. How's THAT?" Spittin' mad at us, Lil' Copenhagen was. We ignored him 'cause we were just getting to the third-best part of "From Fear Through the Eyes of Madness", the part with all the ghosty Haunted Castle! noises. Magnificent. I feel like this about perhaps one album a year, but never before about a band who played on the fucking Warped Tour, for Christ's sake.

And when Yuoshka and I complete our modern dance epic to accompany the album, we will surely obtain a hefty grant of some sort to stage it in the world's more artistically savvy cities. But the dancers who ultimately perform it will have to be ready for exertion. Sometimes the muscle overlying my diaphragm is astoundingly sore the day after a "practice", from all the deep, arms-pinwheeling backbend-type moves. (Does anyone think I'm making that up? I'm not.) We were trying to figure out which modern choreographer most influenced our style, then realized we only knew of such people by name and by B&W photos of them in the New Yorker and were pretentious little shits having a fraudulent conversation.

One last bit and then I'll leave Burning Star IV alone for at least a fortnight: during a recent listen Y. sighed, chin in hand, seal eyes rolled to the firmament, "I wish I could sing like that." That from someone who will tell you in all seriousness that he's a better singer in every conceivable way than such middling vocalists as Freddie Mercury and Steve Perry. (Never says it about Stevie Nicks though, no, that faggot does not.)