WU LYF is nothing, four dumb kids calling out heavy longings for a place to call home, two brothers greet two brothers and play heavy pop. I don’t feel at home in this place, like your hearts drunk on kerosene and all you need is a spark. A lil’ flare of Lucifer. And in blind faith they believe what they are told to believe and exploit your true mamma until her blood runs blue. The wind on the mountain laps tame, its wild years replaced by an air-conditioning unit, sleek and metallic, molded perfection. And in efficient regulation the people were conditioned and were told there’s no alternative son. To tell fire is to question, to bring fuel to the fires started by kids no longer blinded by spectacle glare. So go tell fire.
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