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Plastinka - K1Y


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Right off the sweaty and furred back meat of his last hotly ignored album, Plastinka (Chris Peters) returns with a soon to be jettisoned into infinity follow up on our beloved Tonchinkan Records. The 7 track saucisson coalesced after Chris found himself chatting inanely with a grey faced bureauborg at the bisphenol A dispenser during a designated 1800 second nutrition intake segment on one of Ottawa's more ATP depleted afternoons. They talked, she asked about his work. He was not interested. Neither was she. And yet the moment conceived thoughts so rainbow-like in their shimmer that Chris had no choice but to meticulously barricade himself into the prison of his own psyche for eves on end until the 16 pads of his decrepit MPC hummed like a trumpet creeper in the throws of Trochilidae penetration. Live in its reveal, the album gushes forth in a mucous smeared funk of playfulness. If you listen closely, there is a remote possibility that you may quiver in the arc of a musical world fixated by time unwasted, in moments awash with meaning. P&L.G&C.XO.

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