Idolator

Your Idolators make no bones about the numerous music-writing skeletons in their closet; at some point or another, we've all been guilty of noting how rock is "guitar-driven," or calling something "groovy." But we are seriously confused as to just what the hell is going on at MP3 blog Said The Gramophone, where the music write-ups have become so surreal and absurd, we wouldn't be surprised if the writers are putting angel dust in their eyelids before sitting down to compose something like this:

I see a lone horse, standing in front a barn, picking his guitar and starting this song. As each instrument is introduced, their player walks slowly out of the barn and lines up beside the horse. Once everyone is there, the [sic] literally start dragging the barn across the field, into the sunny part, where the hayloft can get warm, and the mice and spiders can finally see each other. When they get there, the cymbals are already cheersing [sic] (From a review of Rock Plaza Central's "I Am An Excellent Steel Horse")

Wait, so the horse is playing a guitar? For an audience of spiders? Also: The horse is playing guitar?

After the click-through, some more examples of Gramophone's confusing critical twists. We ask for your help decoding each entry—that is, if you can make it past the first sentence.

(Have you ever found a small flowering plant, near the beach? Just up from the ocean sand, something tufted and prickly and beautiful? Perhaps two small purple flowers? Three round yellow ones? Or a single, strange white blossom, ringed in rings of ringing orange? Yeah? Near the streaked pebbles and watercoloured mussel shells? Well I've not checked with Larkin Grimm, not checked Wikipedia nor even googled it, but still I will bet you more than a few quid(s) that this rough flower is a jasy tree.) (From a review of Larkin Grin's "The Jasy Tree)"

What? Why are you asking me about pebbles? What does that have to do with—

The moon is the colour of a coffee stain, [Tom Waits is] eating Telapia fischcakes and fried black swan, while dining with Scarface Ron. It's almost, in fact it is, quite hilarious how much Tom Waits is himself. And I wouldn't want it any other way. Although it's troubling that this is a perfect song to drink alone to. Looking from the bookshelf to the ceiling and back again, feeling the corduroy of the chair arms under your fingertips, trying to force tears out of your eye sockets, like so many fingers down your goddamn throat. (From a review of Tom Waits' "Bottom Of The World")

Wait, is the song sad? What the hell is a Telapia—

It is a throaty, burnished introduction: wobbling 'n weaving horns, a pile of shoes, a night getting slowly to its feet. And then, almost like a reggae tune, the drums take some unsteady steps and fall into place. Jingle jingle thump, jingle jingle thump, horns in line behind. And out from the curtains: it's Beirut. A smiling Balkan troubadour - part-gypsy, part-Wainwright, with a caravan full of Neutral Milk Hotel records and maybe Gogol Bordello's sparkling shoes. (A voice nourished on schnapps.) And if it doesn't make you wonder what follows (a track called "Prenzlauerberg"), well go home to your Wonderbread and Miracle Whip. (From a review of Beirut's "Gulag Orkestar"

Seriously: Jingle. Jingle. Thump.