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In contrast to dimensionally-challenged rocknroll grandstanding guitar solos of a deeply gratuitous nature and the plethora of electro-cheesefests shamelessly available to the human ear stands Ruger Seeds. A remarkable exploration into the possibilities of sawtooth waves when sculpted like a bodybuilder's baby's bottom and delicately pampered like a statue with diapers on it. Organic instrumentation combines with an electronically-pioneering spirit so harmoniously, they make wine and cheese partner up like crab-cake and nuclear arms. Bright guitar strings flitter and melt onto synth soundscapes like butter on a sun burnt man's ass. How did such clever beat artistry begin? Well...Initially I had a long tangent of a space story here that utilized the word space constantly. For example, "The final spacestraw that broke the spacecamels spaceback" and on and on. I showed it to a friend but after seeing her face express what can only be described as a reasonable compromise between pity and disgust as her jaw forged its own path below the carpet and into the great abyss of shocked stupidity, I realized my approach had been a muddied and unprofessional venture for a rare opportunity to praise a truly wonderful musical endeavor. And I seemed to have unprofessionally muddied it up again. But what is professional in this day and age of presidents attacking countries they can't even pronounce and chairmen of major corporations driving their companies into the ground for fun and profit? Besides, to focus on the mistakes of the past means more possibilities of erring in the present, so let's just move on because to simplify all this would be to move away from the actual point of interest which is of course the album and clearly not the horribly muddied, revised and then remuddied middle of this affectionate document that may, in the end, damage an extremely upstanding reputation of someone or something, somewhere very special, or at least civilized. The artist behind Ruger Seeds, who, due to a narcissistic frenzy of writing indulgences and poor planning, does not get mentioned by name until the third to last sentence, creates a powerful bolt of energy from a narcoleptic space-pirate, and it hits you and makes you shake your booty. Eclectic authenticity and melodic abstractions intertwine to insure the mass-marketing potential of a heavily burdened and physically ill platypus. But so as butter and bread are the referential archetypes for prison food, So too are the radio waves flooded with a swill so foul that Jim Jones could not get his people to drink it, which is another story on several accounts. To conclude, I would like to present an excerpt from the previously aforementioned space story. One that had been rightfully abandoned and then, at the last minute and for no rational or even slightly complimentary reason, re-inserted in excerpt form as a non sequitur for the ending. The SpaceSpigget went on to have various bum life-trips for many years to come, and was generally viewed by many as a partially-deranged ass, also known as an assmunch. Mike Jerugim went on to release Ruger Seeds. You've heard his story. Now listen to his adventure.