Mishigami To Memphis
A Sepulchral Roots Joint
A few notes of acknowledgment before we get into the unsettled mysteries of this tale: Rory McLeod, the man whose notes, sketches and ephemera make up the foundation of this story, was my father. I live in his old house surrounded by artifacts of his obsession, the psychedelic, hard rock outfit known as ᴜᴍʙʀᴀɴᴏx. And up until last year, when he succumbed to, by then, a deteriorating course of schizo-affective catatonia, he believed his beloved band would return someday soon with their long-promised ninth and final album.
It was hard to believe considering their complete and utter disappearance twenty-one years ago. More than just ducking out of the spotlight, it was enigmatic erasure like they were plucked off the planet, between thumb and forefinger, in some unearthly abduction.
And though sightings of the band members and theories on their likely seclusion or obliteration accumulated exponentially over time, McLeod was confident that ᴜᴍʙʀᴀɴᴏx indeed foretold their unexpected elusion and surprise reappearance through countless clues, in their canon of music, art and prose.
Rocked and bashed against the stone
Every tooth and chip of bone
Vile and vulgar, crushed and cruel
Elder blood, we drain the pool
Night Legs come with sour breath
Alight with rasping, cloying death
Netherlords and mountain trolls
Caustic tusks through eyeless holes
Entropic ecstasy unfolds
It's a tragedy, Rory McLeod would never see their climactic homecoming. On Sunday June 15th, 2022, record label, Stinky Fingers announced the band's resurfacing with this auspicious and beguiling message on social streams and the long-dormant band website: Acolytes and slaves rise up, ᴜᴍʙʀᴀɴᴏx is nigh, cut rifts the cosmos breaks dark heaven's in the sky.
In the following months, the band would announce the release of their final album and world tour. The members remained elusive and only communicated through a newly appointed manager and spokesperson, Francis Thurlond-Stanway. Questions regarding their disappearance were generally ignored or only answered with cryptic statements alluding to the need for distance and time to regenerate and re-energize for the last act.
When my editor, Denny Sherenberg, asked me to write their story for the upcoming documentary film I had no idea how deep and dark this odyssey would take me. And in my research and detailed decoding of my father's analysis and interpretation, I felt like I was filling in the missing gaps of our relationship. Years of hermetic and compulsive behaviour, perhaps now explained, or at the very least, understood in a way you could feel more than express to anyone. Was he disturbed? Yes. Was there any coherence to his rambling and scrawling? Yes. Now, more than ever, I am sure there is.
The orgins of the group are vague, but I've managed to capture what I believe to be the most likely genesis through scraps of semi-audible interviews and familial commentary, though inconceivably, all blood relations of each founding member are suspiciously absent or nonexistent.
In 1972, like many other art students of the time, Julian Bouchard and Fraser Elgar, engaged in conspicuous experimentation. Drugs, fashion, music and anything else they could warp and wrap around themselves like an emblematic robe of counter culture, was open to their particular brand of exploration. They were weirdos in the eyes of the ultra-conforming academic crowd which is exactly how they liked it.
The music scene around the Mishigami University campus flourished at the time and the vibe was magnetic. Julian (Jules) used his tuition money for second semester and bought a Fender SG and Fraser stole some random drums and stands from the music department at school, with the intention they'd start a band, though neither knew the first thing about their instruments.
They posted a few psychedelically styled bills on the university bulletin boards looking for musicians, in hopes that someone would call with a little more musicianship than they had acquired in the two brief “sound” checks they performed in the dirt basement of the Sons of Norway Community Hall.
A fortuitous response from Rabiya Hadi, an exchange student from Jordan, propelled the nascent musical ensemble forward. Not only did Rabiya play bass, she was proficient at guitar, piano, drums and several other orchestral voices.
Now with the trio somewhat realized, though Julian and Fraser had yet let Rabiya teach them how to play, they needed to sound like something. But to sound like something they needed a name. Not surprisingly they fashioned themselves as dark and brooding anarchistic malcontents and needed an appropriate moniker to reflect their nihilistic and venomous nature. Nothing seemed right, until Rabiya, after a mononucleostic fever dream declared that a red-headed man dusted in glitter appeared in a vision and told her that the name of the band had to be ᴜᴍʙʀᴀɴᴏx.
It was meant to be. You couldn't argue with Rabiya anyway, let alone her dreams. It was a better name than anything they had come up with or anything they'd ever heard before. When asked about the meaning of the name, ᴜᴍʙʀᴀɴᴏx, Julian often referenced, occultist and poet, Agnes P Mulgrew and her book of verse, Shadows of the Night. One particular excerpt was often quoted:
What darker night compares to thee
Resplendent shades in soot and blue
And death black braided coils fall free
Inside your hollow head, a tomb
Tell no one this, no howl, no hiss
Hell’s vast abyss, a promised kiss
No one really got it. Which served them well considering their unnatural and ambivalent posturing.
In itself the name was solid. It felt meaty like a side of beef hanging in a slaughterhouse. They started making posters for imaginary gigs. Slime monsters and sphincteral filagree were common motifs. Rory managed to unearth a few of these treasures. They’re hanging in the upstairs bathroom.
They needed to dream up some songs to turn those speculative performances into a reality. Though Rabiya possessed virtuosic instrumental abilities, they needed a lyricist and a singer to imbue their amped four-chord arrangements with a layer of provocation and gravity it deserved.
To round out the lineup, Ozymandias Rowley, local bohemian poet vagrant joined them as lead singer in the spring of 1973, claiming he was the one who appeared in Rabiya's dream, gifting her the band name but also confirming their cosmic connection in the shadow realm. Incidentally, he also claimed the glitter was the dust of exploded angels, obliterated by primordial forces in a battle he witnessed. Sufficiently strange, he was a perfect front man for ᴜᴍʙʀᴀɴᴏx.
After six months of cobbling together a proper set list that didn't include Vanilla Fudge and Hawkwind filler jams, they were lucky enough to meet Dhalia Doucette at the Mandrake Root Rock Revival who offered her father's recording studio and her own audio engineering expertise to lay the ground work for their first album.
Lonesome Sunset Studios was founded in 1955 by Dhalia's father, Tenessee Wilcox, a country and western crooner, famous for his dark and ethereal hit song, Ships In The Valley. He left his daughter in charge of the hundred acre estate and recording complex, deciding to retire in the French Alps with his terrier mutt Motley.
During the studio sessions, for the debut album, Dhalia added the sonic glue that held the compositions together by incorporating organs, synthesizers and vibraphones. And after bonding with the band over the three weeks in the remote arboreal retreat, smoking red seal, and cycling shroom tea, she became the fifth member.
In the foyer, there's a series of portraits Rory hung like a shrine to the revered members. Each photograph signed and marked with their ᴜᴍʙʀᴀɴᴏx persona. Julian set upon a mound of skulls, became Jules Fang, Fraser, among the ruins of Pompei as Lord Frango, Rabiya, with a leporine shift to Rabbit descending steps of a misty underworld, Ozy became Wild Oscar hanging upside down from gothic rafters, and Dhalia Doucette, initialized to Dee Dee at the controls of an interstellar vehicle.
The band returned to Lonesome Sunset for the next seven albums, each time retreating to their crepuscular temple, for long secretive stays. Farmers and herders in the county often reported a violet, caustic mist permeated the wood surrounding the compound probably serving as a trespassing deterrent.
I uncovered one report of a teenage couple found unconscious at the edge of a clearing with an unexplained burning rash on their throat and chest. Once revived, the only thing they could remember was entering the forested area, following the sound of running water, then seeing a white flash and smelling the acrid fumes of burnt hair.
In the neighbouring village of Bowstecky, villagers conjured their own rumours of ritual sacrifice, satanic practices and arcane cult ceremonies, though nothing was ever witnessed or confirmed. ᴜᴍʙʀᴀɴᴏx rarely appeared in town, only adding to their mystique. And on the occasions that they did need to resupply, they'd send Wild Oscar, in an oversized conical hat, disguised as a migrant field worker.
The following, an excerpt from an interview with the band after the runaway success of their first album:
Interviewer:
You're calling it a concept album. Can you tell me a bit about that?
Jules Fang:
Ya it's about chaos, but not in a messy, confusing way—
Wild Oscar:
It's the stuff of creation, like an embryonic dust storm, swirling in the void.
Interviewer:
So are the songs telling that story?
Rabbit:
Not literally telling that story, but they're a foundation.
Interviewer:
What do you mean foundation?
Wild Oscar:
An awakening man—like we're coming out of a dream into a new reality
Interviewer:
I see, so In the liner notes, here, the song Bat Skin Mask Dance, it says:
tear me down and rip apart
poison spray and rotting heart
tear my eyes out of my head
drown the witch and raise the deadAlmost sounds like some kind of incantation, is that what you were going for here?
Jules Fang:
It's a feeling you know, we're the players, just tryin' to get you to feel something.
Rabbit:
You gotta look at the big picture right? When you listen to the record from beginning to end, you'll get an impression of ᴜᴍʙʀᴀɴᴏx and our message. We want people to escape and give in to the chaos.
Wild Oscar:
Lose control and find yourself. That's what we're sayin
Interviewer:
Cool, gotcha. So what's next for ᴜᴍʙʀᴀɴᴏx after you finish touring the album?
Jules Fang:
We have eight more concept albums lined up and then we're done.
Interviewer:
Wow, that's an ambitious and very considered plan! Do you have specific themes in mind for these other releases?
Rabbit:
Yes but we're not telling yet. Let's just say, they're all a part of something bigger to come.
Interviewer:
Your fans will be happy about that. Anything else you want to let them know?
Wild Oscar:
Just that we love them. We love them so much we could eat them up!
Examined and listened to every ᴜᴍʙʀᴀɴᴏx album forward and backward the last two weeks. Laid out all of Rory's notes in the dining room in categorical columns with their accompanying cover art at the top for easy reference. And I've listened to miles of tape including interviews, rehearsals, and some low quality field recordings that I can't interperet. Seems like Rory tried. There are references in a notebook labelled, Solfège Summoning Theta Plane, to notation on the piano, ᴛɪ ʟᴀ ʀᴇ ᴍɪ. I play the notes a few times and mimic the melody under my breath. Is something supposed to happen?
More thoughts to write now. Discovering things—connections.
O͎v͎e͎r͎w͎h͎e͎l͎m͎e͎d͎. Maybe it's just all the coffee. Switching to tea, Does it matter? Smoking spliff then. Chill out and drink some water maybe.
Denny called.
Francis Thurlond-Stanway called.
New album, dropped. Getting it delivered. Don't want to leave house. Denny asked how it was going. I told him it's getting there, but truth is I think it's getting further away, or I'm getting further away.
Did I dream? Some maybe. Deadly gifts the chalice poured you. Tears of milk and dragon heart dew. In some light elastic membrane. With a sword. A Cobrawolf Mane.
Been flipping the new vinyl over and over. There's something in here. It's uncomfortable to listen to, but I can feel it, hear it and when I close my eyes, the wiggly scan lines on the inside of my eyelids start to render something, but it's too horrible to sustain. Involuntary reflexes and my eyes just open and the secret disappears.
Back to dining room and looking at coded albums titles now:
𝘾𝙐𝙉𝙒𝙕 - 1974
𝙀𝘼𝙂𝙕𝙑𝙓𝙅 - 1976
𝙅𝙃𝙌𝙊𝙇𝙐𝙋𝙉𝙈 - 1980
𝘾𝙀𝙍𝙄𝘼𝙌𝙕𝙉 - 1984
𝘿𝙍𝙁𝙓𝙃𝙌𝘾 - 1987
𝙑𝘽𝙑𝙇 - 1992
𝘿𝙍𝙁𝘽𝙔𝘾𝙉𝙏𝘽𝙒𝘽 -1995
𝙏𝙑𝙕𝙈 - 2002
𝙍𝙍𝙂𝙕𝙋𝙅𝙁𝙏𝘽𝙒𝘽 - 2023
Rory kept a book of puzzles, patterns and secret codes of which Umbranox employed generously in their music and art. Using the Vigenère cipher1 keyword, 𝘼𝙉𝙉𝙄𝙃𝙄𝙇𝘼𝙏𝙄𝙊𝙉, this final album title resolves to 𝙍𝙀𝙏𝙍𝙄𝘽𝙐𝙏𝙄𝙊𝙉. Fitting label for how this music feels. The mixing is cutting and ruthless. Here the guitars are like industrial saws and the drums reverberate with a bone-crunching gristle that sets my jaw tight. And the vocals, if you can call them that, are both unlistenable and magnetic simultaneously.
Feeling restless. I'm caught between fight and flight—then just find submission comfortable. The void is right here in front of me. Inside me. 𝙑𝙊𝙄𝘿, also being my favorite of the albums. Go figure.
Album's been out for a month now. Definitely mixed reviews, but the fans love it. Though (maybe not so strangely) there's been a dramatic uptick in disappearances and suicides everywhere, some conspiracy folks attributing to subliminal messaging and hypnotic suggestion. No comment from the band or Francis Thurlond-Stanway for any trance-gression on their part. They've heard this stuff before.
Keep drifting off. Not sleeping though. Just spacing. Writing it all down in case it means something later. Giant limbs and seed pod erasers, flying in these mantis racers. Aminita temple speed track. Lovers on a crimson bear back.
Left for Lonesome Sunset on Wednesday with a few suitcases of ᴜᴍʙʀᴀɴᴏx paraphernalia and documentary material. The estate granted me full access. Doesn’t seem like anyone has been here for a long time. Got here this afternoon and am about to do a chronological listening marathon again now with final album in place. Lit some candles too. The flames keep me company like golden sprites. It's dark out here tonight. Remote in the way that you can feel down at the base of your ꪀꫀᥴᛕ
Some blood smeared on keyboard. Gotta stop biting my hangnails. I touch the tip of my tongue to my index finger and wipe it away with my saliva. Should be hungry but just don’t care.
Turned on old antenna TV to keep me company in the background. Also gives a good nostalgia vibe.
Okay, too tired to write at the moment. Just did nine hours straight with the discography. Feeling low and tired. Need to veg out and sleep now. Can't even make it to the bed. Staying on couch with tv show lady.
TV: /\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\—and here's that clip with Francis Thurlond-Stanway talking about the band ᴜᴍʙʀᴀɴᴏx and their last tour. I understand that no one has actually seen the band since their reappearance. Anything planned for the big reveal on opening night?I wouldn't be able to tell you if there was. Even I haven't seen the band since they came back. Let's call their communication style, minimal. They send me tapes with recorded messages. I don't even think it's their voices. Sounds like a generated computer voice - you know?Wow, I wonder–why so coy? I understand you've got a tape with you today announcing the tour date locations. Big moment here folks. Let's have a listen:—-ᴍᴇᴍᴘʜɪꜱ ᴜꜱᴀ, ꜱᴀɴ ꜰʀᴀɴꜱɪꜱᴄᴏ ᴜꜱᴀ, ᴛᴏᴋʏᴏ ᴊᴀᴘᴀɴ, ꜱᴇᴏᴜʟ ᴋᴏʀᴇᴀ, ꜱʜᴀɴɢʜᴀɪ ᴄʜɪɴᴀ, ɴᴇᴡ ᴅᴇʟʜɪ ɪɴᴅɪᴀ, ᴅᴜʙᴀɪ ᴜᴀᴇ, ᴍᴇᴍᴘʜɪꜱ ᴇɢʏᴘᴛ, ᴀᴛʜᴇɴꜱ ɢʀᴇᴇᴄᴇ, ʙᴀʀᴄᴇʟᴏɴᴀ ꜱᴘᴀɪɴ, ʟɪꜱʙᴏɴ ᴘᴏʀᴛᴜɢᴀʟ, ɴᴇᴡ ʏᴏʀᴋ ᴄɪᴛʏ ᴜꜱᴀ – ᴅᴀᴛᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡ——Well, that's something, not much to go on but I guess par for the course when it comes to ᴜᴍʙʀᴀɴᴏx. Quite a quirky jagged line around the globe! Anything to add Francis? You okay there miss? Francis? You there?Cut th—/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\ I smell wax. No, maybe it’s tallow. Fat from the vat. Perfume of the devourer. Skin scrapings curl like kindling on the coals. Nerves spring back into muscle fibre and ache like a swollen heart.
First show of the tour tonight in Memphis. Denny says he'll get me tickets for the last show in New York which is fine. I'd rather see the band reveal through the cameras than jump-gawking for a view over the crowd. It's a tiny venue anyway considering the hype around this first re-appearance. Probably only five thousand people. Got my pay-per-view going on my laptop and some local satellite news feed barely coming through on the old television.
Amazing performance! Watching this looks like some psychedelic spirit ritual. The light show obscures everything in strobing silhouettes and snarled lips of color. The band members are on stage but their faces are completely blown out in a fiery flickering light. The music isn't just heavy, it's an earthquake of sonic disaster. The audience is throbbing and jerking. They want to hear the songs from the new album but the set goes on without them.
Feed buffered itself out. Can't get it back. Socials say the broadcast is down everywhere. Television is static too.
It's late. Lighting more candles for the company again. Questioning if I've eaten anything recently. Might have been a couple of days now.
Adjusting antennae, picture is phasing back in. Flopping on couch.
TV:/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\—Jane Campo here at the Mud Island Amphitheatre on the banks of the Mississippi in Memphis Tennesee, where a strange and terrible phenomenon is unfolding after the band, ᴜᴍʙʀᴀɴᴏx, ended their inaugural concert on their final tour. And as you can see security and rescue operations are trying to stop the crowd here from swimming out into the river. Police say, that they've lost some people already and others are in critical condition. These people don't look well. Authorities on site are trying to figure out what specifically is causing this spontaneous psychosis as more and more people are throwing themselves into the water. It doesn't look like all of them can swim very well and they don't seem to be headed in any particular direction. We've heard one officer say they are acting like rats on a sinking boat—/\/\/\
Media not setting up cameras or video feed for San Fransisco. No explanation. Show is Wednesday. Will read buzz online. Watch shitty fan vids.
News says Memphis was a tragedy and critics are calling for ᴜᴍʙʀᴀɴᴏx to cancel the tour but the promotors and band are ignoring it all and moving ahead with the schedule.
Found something. I think this is it. 𝙍𝙀𝙏𝙍𝙄𝘽𝙐𝙏𝙄𝙊𝙉 is the end. For everything. Used Rory's notebooks and decoded more acrostic puzzles in liner notes. It's the end of us all. The planet will split open like an egg and release ancient forces, cruel and unusual entities, from a before time that renders this time, our time, insignificant and puny. They haven't played the latest songs at any show yet. I think they are saving it for the last show. It'll be their encore. A summoning. A call for the end.
I ran out of candles so I'm burning furniture. Just the old stuff from the garage. Internet is spottier and spottier everyday. Television still phases in and out kinda like me. I'm tired but can't sleep. Don't remember the last time. Maybe dozed off yesterday or the day before for a bit.
Shows in San Fransisco and across the Pacific were all troubled with some kind of disaster. It was a rogue wave in the bay area, a sustained unexplainable pink fog in Tokyo leading to airline cancelations and widespread traffic accidents. Crowd stampedes in Seoul. Some reports of violent cannabilistic crowd frenzy in Shanghai, though the accounts are inconsistent and unbelievable. New Delhi tonight.
That thing I found about the end. How it ends. Last song. Last album. The lyrics are conspicuously missing from the liner notes but I've finally transposed the vocals. Wasn't easy. Sounds mostly like animal suction noises and a phlegm-sputtering asthma attack. But here I found it and don't know if anyone else has yet.
JUST BENEATH THE SURFACE, CHAOS AWAITS, WE HOLD
UNDERNEATH THE VEIL WE WRITHE, THE VOID CALLS, NOXUMBRA
DARKNESS DROOLS AND GULPS INCANTATIONS, OUR STORY
GRUESOME GOBLINS DEFORMED OFFSPRING OF FUNGI
ENDLESS SINKING SANDS OUR ABYSSAL GOD LIZARDS
MELT OUR MINDS IN JELLY SLOP AND POUR MOLDS OF ASPIC
EATING, GNAWING, THE HUNGER GROWS AND SO WE GO
NEXUS OF SCREAMS WE SPASM WITH DEVIL RHYTHM
TOMORROW ENDS WITH EMPTY BLACK, NO COLOR EVERMORE
Do you see it? Acrostics on both ends. Judgement at Alpha and immanence at Omega. It's happening now. Did anything else ever mean anything at all? The last show will end with this justice dispensed en masse. The air is thick with it now. More disappearances, many wandering souls crossing the median, in through the out door, the hills are alive. They were jumping off the cliffs in Athens, pulling their hair out in India, and feeding themselves to the crocs on the Nile. The world was unravelling and everyone was barely hanging on. Just watching footage—Lisbon ransacked, explosions going off and in Barcelona, concertgoers got up the next morning and stared into the sun.
With all the global chaos, the promoters and city cancelled the New York show. Too little too late I'd say. Can't get a hold of Denny for those tickets anyway. Rumour is, ᴜᴍʙʀᴀɴᴏx are going to play at a secret venue near the old university campus this evening. I’m thinking Sons of Norway.
Lake Michigan is cold this time of year. Driving to Chicago now. Gonna crash the show if I can find it. Barely any charge left in phone and the grid went down out here. Leaving anyway.
Radio is crackling news and weather. Pulled over at the shoreline rest stop to rest eyes, still haven't slept though it feels like I've been driving in my sleep for days. I think I missed the show. Where did time go? I'm squinting at the sun rising on the horizon, except it's coming up in the west. A searing knife of light rips open the sky over the lake. The tearing sound rings in my head like screaming tinnitus.
The water is rising. Air is yellow. Vibrations are deafening so I'm trying to stay cool doing ᴛɪ ʟᴀ ʀᴇ ᴍɪ. Voice is straining but I’m not going to stop. ᴛɪ ʟᴀ ʀᴇ ᴍɪ ᴛɪ ʟᴀ ʀᴇ ᴍɪ ᴛɪ ʟᴀ ʀᴇ ᴍɪ ᴛɪ ʟᴀ ʀᴇ ᴍɪ ᴛɪ ʟᴀ ʀᴇ ᴍɪ ᴛɪ ʟᴀ ʀᴇ ᴍɪ ᴛɪ ʟᴀ ʀᴇ ᴍɪ ᴛɪ ʟᴀ ʀᴇ ᴍɪ ᴛɪ ʟᴀ ʀᴇ ᴍɪ ᴛɪ ʟᴀ ʀᴇ ᴍɪ. Water is rising. Ground’s cracking open, We're all pouring in. Here we go.
Radio:/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\—this is it, that's all ther———— /\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
With special thanks to
for suggestions and editorial magic.Vigenère Encoder/Decoder Python Script
def generate_key(message, key):
key = list(key)
if len(message) == len(key):
return key
else:
for i in range(len(message) - len(key)):
key.append(key[i % len(key)])
return "".join(key)
def vigenere_cipher(message, key, mode):
key = generate_key(message, key)
translated = []
for i in range(len(message)):
if mode == "encode":
x = (ord(message[i]) + ord(key[i]) - 2 * ord('A')) % 26
x += ord('A')
elif mode == "decode":
x = (ord(message[i]) - ord(key[i]) + 26) % 26
x += ord('A')
translated.append(chr(x))
return "".join(translated)
# Example usage:
message = "HELLO"
key = "KEY"
encoded_message = vigenere_cipher(message, key, "encode")
decoded_message = vigenere_cipher(encoded_message, key, "decode")
print("Encoded Message:", encoded_message)
print("Decoded Message:", decoded_message)
How It Works
generate_key: This function ensures that the key is the same length as the message by repeating the key as necessary.
vigenere_cipher:
Encoding: For each character in the message, it adds the ASCII values of the message character and the key character, adjusts for the alphabet's range (A-Z), and converts it back to a character.
Decoding: For each character in the encoded message, it subtracts the ASCII value of the key character from the encoded character, adjusts for the alphabet's range, and converts it back to a character.
Example Usage: The code encodes the message "HELLO" with the key "KEY" and then decodes the encoded message back to "HELLO". It prints the results to the console.
By following these steps, you can encode and decode messages using the Vigenère cipher with this Python code snippet.
This is so fucking rad. 🤘
Dear editor, I tried to generate a message that evoked the end of the world in a snarling apocalypse and all I got was FLUFFY BUNNY LUVS WOO... Something wrong surely?
Rad music though I'm puzzled about what the backwards lyrics are. My mommy says it's evil but I think it's just friendly tips on dieting