As I ponder, weak and weary, many quaint and forgotten volume of justifiably obscure prog-rock, my internal symbolic raven croaks threateningly for decades of yore. Widely derided for fusing early Beatles bowl cuts with mid-period Beatles foppery, as if that would phase any old simpleton with a bedroom neo-post-prog audio diary in 2010, doomed psych hopefuls Glass Prism lay the gnarly poetry of Edgar Allen Poe upon a soft bed of Deep Purplish proto-pretentious organ rock. Poe isn't exactly known for his romantic poetry, and Glass Prism isn't exactly known for their groundbreaking sound or bold fashion choices, but this record nonetheless remains a throbbing heart buried 'neath the floorboards, eating away at your conscience.
Nevermore, until tomorrow.
Nevermore, until tomorrow.
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