As the byline describes with rapt attention, this is “spontaneous, improvised, slow crescendo by every audience ever.” Yes, it is what it says: an entire disc of applause. A ceaseless, neverending, nay-eternal timestretch of the manic, slavish response of rawkshow sheep goggling tight spandex cockjocks, the disgusting, hamfisted crapclaps of the orgasmic bourgeoisie, the pre-pubescent squeals of Britney Spears fanclub flamb\u00c3\u00a9s. Whatever: the show must go on, and when it ends, it ends as the only thing the show ever wanted and will want: its fresh, stinking load of applause dumped in your lap like tomorrow’s burrito and six-pack on the exit-run. Which is to say that this is quite possibly the most daring finger-flip of an avant-garde attack to hit since, well, since Sid’s punkspit, Zappa’s lights-on gyrodances, Dada’s destruction, and Breton’s audiente alienation. It’s up there, a useless disc for perfect times of utter irony in the face of a world gone mad slapping their fatty, flabby appendages together. Three cheers for the bravado of Autodigest.<\/p>\n
Tobias C. Van Veen<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
As the byline describes with rapt attention, this is “spontaneous, improvised, slow crescendo by every audience ever.” Yes, it is what it says: an entire disc of applause. A ceaseless, neverending, nay-eternal timestretch of the manic, slavish response of rawkshow sheep goggling tight spandex cockjocks, the disgusting, hamfisted crapclaps of the orgasmic bourgeoisie, the pre-pubescent … <\/p>\n