I’ve been sitting on W.A.C.O.’s Sylvania for nearly two months now, and frankly, I still don’t know what to make of it: Few records are so beyond-whimsy – in the Dr. Seuss sense – that I feel wholly unqualified to analyze them. But maybe that’s a mark of genius…or, more likely, acid-dropping overload. Between the supremely fey vocals and melodies and the lyrics about maps, light, anteaters, John Malkovich (?!?) and wig rodeos (see previous parenthetical), there is little to suggest otherwise (i.e., clear-headedness). Somewhere out there there’s probably a niche for Sylvania , but I’d suggest bringing munchies and patchouli if you ever meet its members.
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