There is a man stood at the end of a cliff. He is sort of yelping and his tear-stainedBlakfisht-shirt is flailing wildly.
“Math rock is dead!” he screams, “Where are the beefy riffs? Where are the captivating twinkles? Where is the rock-solid drumming?”. Our hero pauses for a teary slurp of (probably crap) craft ale -it mostly ends up in his volumous beard. “I’m sick of bleeps and bloops, of tappy nonsense, of that 7/8 crap, of angsty teenagers jingling around angstily in FACGCE!”
He edges closer, kisses his scarily weathered tattoo of Dan Beesley, places his emptied bottle in a conveniently positioned vegan-friendly recycling bin and jumps, with all the imaginable grace of a 30 something year old math fan.
Suddenly, out of nowhere a choir of angels appear, nestling our man in their most graceful of wingage. At the centre a ringleader angel floats, brandishing a CD player blasting the new SOFA record. “Hush dearest sweet man and open thou ears – behold these beefy riffs, those captivating twinkles, that rock-solid drumming”
The man, faith in math restored, pipes up; “Is there intricate guitar interplay and outrageous delay gurglage too?” She smiles and winks, “You bet there is buddy”
However, their moment of holy peace is short. Seconds later, she would hit him over the head, tell him to stop being so being so damned melodramatic and that he should shut his bloody gob or else.