Sleep “The Sciences” [Third Man Records, April 2018]


Begin transmission:

Courtesy demands that we begin this with something of a beginning.  Yet the first :15 of this album sounds as if courtesy has long since been cast aside.  So we begin where we begin…

Listen, humans:  For, lo, there are before you many vehicles that come bearing our message.  Those that “pave the way,” as you say. Those that, as you vulgarly put it, “grease the wheels”.  And yea, it must be true that some of these are beyond your comprehension. I hereby posit that the American rock band Sleep is among those vessels.  Verily, you shall know all truths simply by hearing their bowel-loosening B-flat.

Most assuredly, it is true, for behold: on the song titled “Marijuanaut’s Theme”, it is as if this is some old school doom rock band. Ske—-

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Mayday! Mayday!  This is Netpuna Sigma 5!  Calling Houston! Mayday! May…

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There. That’s better. Now that we’ve got your feeble bits of attention, may we present “Sonic Titan,” a song most suited to your weak-willed, slow-witted, standard-tuned tastes?  It is quite superior to your Backstreet Boys, and your Ariana Grande, which you insist on expelling into the stratosphere, with no regard for taste. Or waste.

Have a listen to bass on the latter half of that song. If you can square the wave of that particular frequency, halfway thru the verse, perhaps you can design a pizzly little sonic weapon which with to attempt to bruise us. Of course your planet’s ability to design sonic weapons is akin to your 14th century cartographer’s ability to see a globe. But, it appears we are getting ahead of ourselves…

‘Tis true, we ARE.

On this next soundwave, entitled “Antarcticans Thawed”, we see how your humans operate at a constant 98.6 degree Fahrenheit. I daresay the downtuning is all that needs be said.


Among the finer titles I’ve ever heard is “Giza Butler”. And it stands up to its word, grumpy Caligula. The red tree is risen. The bog iz twizzen.  And, among such earthlings, who knows was else is wizened? This song is like a razor blade being shoved into an already pre-salted wound, and then flayed by Lollipop Kids in 105-degree heat. But it’s the ut—

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    –tastrophe! It’s essential that we receive support before we ru–

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    Enough of that.  Silly humans, attempting to save themselves. If our species could laugh, I would laugh right this nanosecond.

Which brings us to the final musical waveform in this digital packet we received before massing our troops on the surface of your piddly little “moon,” as you call it.

“The Botanist” is the title of this track.  Perhaps before we immolate entire population centers, we shall save some of these.  Botanists, I mean. If they are are deep, heavy, and sludgy as this musical outburst suggests, then perhaps they will prove useful to our hive-mind for skills beyond just the cultivation of vegetables.  If not, then they will surely do well in the argon and sulphur mines. This songs betrays a touch of argon, in fact. A suspicious amount, I daresay. Our species prefers this wholly instrumental “jam,” as it known in your parlance.

Verily, your planet will soon be incinerated.  But we shall spare the members of this skilled group of artisans known as Sleep.  You waited thirteen years for this collection of songs, but, for us, that is a mere nanosecond.

New Cassette by James Plane Wreck