“Take it from me, orbitin’ the Earth over ’n’ over ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. When I was asked to hop on board a Soyuz headed to the International Space Station (Assignment: Critical Observation), I reckoned this’d be the trip of a lifetime. Space, the final frontier. And how ’bout that view? But now I feel like I’ve been here that long—a lifetime, that is. You know, the food ain’t much to speak of, plus I gotta constantly make sure I don’t make no crumbs, else they might fuck up our air breathin’ filters. Crumbs! The things one learns. Drinkin’ ain’t no fun neither, ’less you get your jollies sippin’ daquiris from a straw out a plastic bag, like some swishy, doe-eyed Deadhead. And don’t even get me started on hygiene issues! I believe I could take a life for a proper bubble bath right about now (I miss my ducky, too). Which is all just a lumberin’ yet apropos segue to the matter at hand: this debut LP by Watery Love.

“Now, any right-minded corncob south of the Van Allen Belt knows them three precedin’ 7-inches via Richie, Siltbreeze and Negative Guestlist smacked kernels hard, and that smolderin’ ferocity has naturally been carried over here. The glow ’n’ throb what’s got got is as much the byproduct of the eternal bioluminescence of Iron Cross or Third World War as an appreciation for the corroded, fractoluminescence exuded once upon a time by Chain Gang, Slow Death EP-era Leather Nun ’n’ The Gordons. Sure, their environment might seem cold and uncarin’—even downright sociopathic—but behind that facade of David Goodis-like grimness are four sodbusters chompin’ to have a good time. When singer Richie Charles hollers “I’m a skull!” who among the masses would not rush headlong to get a lick off that boney pate? It ain’t about Rofinol, people, it’s about the roof, and how far can Watery Love raise the fucker. Unlike you dickheads, I’m sittin’ pretty in the catbird seat (what part of me bein’ out to space did you miss?) so let me say, keep it comin’! Higher ’n’ higher, nose to the grindstone and all that. Don’t worry, I’ll stop ya when ya get here. And one more thing—don’t forget to bring a six pack. We’ll need it. —Roland Seward Woodbe"

In the Red, 2014