Department of real estate 'servicio electrico' an angled jar and my head is tumbled into the parts of this world termed department of real estate - this might be a cellar bureau or maybe one w/only skylight between it and heaven cuz I am confused and must trust the sense to be humble about such things for it is a journey into their world I've been allowed into... respect is no problem cuz I find the disorientation most interesting though me kneejerk reaction is too fumble for a foothold relying on a title so I grab for the first wrung which is the title track. Later I might admit 'of course' but now I hold the moment critical and sense it like chow I have just for the first time shovelled cuz in fact, it is. It is... a trap drums set pushing a bass (one of pete watkinson's machines) into an improvised dance under a dreaming guitar gospel-splatter denying reference by transcending riff. I become the tongues is speaks of and offer here no clue to this three-way celebration of emotion foam... this is the way I feel the electricity 'serving' me - by a major donate of intuition, liberated. The swirl of the first ride evolves the contemplation I've set sail on into the next unchartered sea, that of 'half a lizard' which squeezes bubbles of meaning in a sensory sense, bandsaw-easy revs rubbing in non-regular laps around the mindtrack, flurling the corresponding flag (you pick the color) to the one man pit crew (alan nakagawa) on the drums who here again and througout this mission will beat-identify expression w/both qualified statement and a unconditional compassion - yeah, I can say that cuz that's what I'm feeling, compassion grooving me beyond linear coresspondence little richard woud understand (my opinion not hope). rapture - either guitar, sax, hakone or toy accordion (kio griffth) yanks me gently by the hair to the subway (or is it a freight train) of 'jasper johns' which stroke after moves us on down and on up, snare on the one and then submerging/surfacing in rapid river rushing of paint sound gushing and pumping from the sump 'till from every pour dumped and there in a pool to congeal into cymbal-splattered twilight beatless konk ressurected sidestick dreamworld anti-clock anthemic 'semiotic' which points it's own signs into sighs, deep breaths and corner-of-the-eye-maybe-seen phantoms. It is that language of the tongues again but from a different part of the spine, probably a lower one. A ton-to-one correspondence is what the mapmaker earned here, trumped by the evidence... surprised by the actual is good justice, we guess? a mystery maybe echos in responce, the next rabbit hole elevator ride is 'pert-near what might seem like another of the same woods just wandered but echoes is more alphabet to spell instead of signs to point - it's the quick heartpulse of toms forming the soil for in-the-dark blossoms that make the threads of 'dress' weave and morph into events, patching the tiny one-act lives from into the next, a print of galaxies w/in galaxies w/their suns being born and rushing in/out. Setting up things a little tribal, drumdrums padding a pavement bearing the kareen of feeback heft and wail in dialog w/synth and burblebass bumblebee tumbling free, the scene under it's own power and sailing the void. Clipped and muted statements from both string machines marry ride cymbal for 'corporate account' suggesting the hidden mystery in that title then morphing into hat/snare drenched confused delay upon delay hallucinatory self-reflections in the funnyfarm mirror - a promising guitar denying any shackle before bobbing on bass and reborn ride percussion warped curved sense of space and the sense of distance in beween reaches out to me, reaches between my ears and continuously seems to measure that space. 'hylozoic' ushers in raindrops of cymbal splashed snyth-to-bass-to-snare coversations hinting at there actually may be no difference between life and matter - all this album's orations liberated from the burden of words and siezed upon sound via improvised music in one way or another compliment this idea, the main thrust of these three men coming together as realized by their very being as a department of real estate manifested herein - this is what is impressed in me and so you now read my reaction but it doesn't stop here - no, what appears to be rational in my thinking is next thrown 'under the bus' and beatdriven-stringthinging-basskneading foam-meringue-palate-slate-sluiced loose of trainingwheel touchstone collar/leash association diapered insurance policy plan b backup kneejerk self-concisous precious breathless mannequin - whatever, this is an outfit that will not fit on a squarejohn dummy cuz it is a celebration of sensation... form has been boiled off and evaporated. breath through saxophone aids breath through bass/breath through drum in 'servicio traduccio' which is the last commuinque from this album. like the other nine, a private translation to every listener even as it gathers up a freight trane of steam under it's own momentum, reminding me vividly that trane was bound for glory even as my thoughts sputtered in making sense of that revelation, the image conjured here by secret parts inside me unknown to me covered up by me set off lit up tore out flipped out - I am most greatful for the services rendered here. Mike watt, san pedro, ca Kio Griffith; prepared guitar, alto sax, synthesizer and effects Alan Nakagawa; drums and percussion Peter Watkinson; bass guitar, theremin and effects Produced by Department of Real Estate Liner Notes by Mike Watt Recorded at Catasonic Studios Engineered and mastered by Mark Wheaton.