The compact disc section was encroaching across the broad record store floor when I bought this from Peaches on 45th upon its release. I loved the amorphous, mordant EP (but what’s all this about whores and eyes?), and missed Surfa Rose due to unwanted attention I was getting regularly from friends of a narc shit bird who carried a copy of The Fountainhead around in his expensive black leather jacket along with a plastic envelope of some gold coins. I guess I should have sold all those cross tops to new wave teenagers like he schemed for me to do instead of just giving it back to him and backing out. (I’m no REM Speed Dealer.) This fucking thing happening to me was the embodiment of my own hyper-vigilance, such as those caused by cheap amphetamines and reptilian liquors. Repetition and sleek mayhem. Buzzsaw Biblical prophecy; who put the bomp at the bottom of the ocean. Mayhem and jumpers and a marathon recording session basically laying down their first three records. Reptilian addictions. Sleek embodiments. Licking the lizard. Three weeks later upon recognizing me the clerk at Peaches followed up, “So what’d you think of Doolittle?” And I stupidly said, “Dude, I have played it out. Like 20 or 30 times a day. The only album I could listen to. I’ve actually retired it to the stacks.” He replied, “Man, no way. You can never burn out on that disc. Except maybe every three days you have to crash.”
Pixies – Doolittle, by Chris Estey
