Cindy Lee, Diamond Jubilee
Album Reivew by Alexander Cain in Music Review World, 5.11.24
I texted about half a dozen people, demanding they answer me immediately because I had something incredible to tell them about. But of course, it was already well past 1 a.m., and no one answered. But…I had found it. I had found the album! The next album to awaken something new in music, the same way a first kiss reawakens the soul. I was still in a furor when I went to bed, only just starting to process it all. I knew damn well I had heard something, but more importantly I had felt something.
So what the hell is this supernatural record I’m talking about? The music which managed to drive me entirely up the wall in the best way possible? Diamond Jubilee is the name of the project. And man, I’ll tell ya, I get my yuk’s just from looking at the cover for this album: an old postcard of a factory in rural Canada, with Cindy Lee herself scribbled over it, cigarette dangling between her fingers.
And just who is this Cindy Lee character I’m talking about? Well, she’s a gal with a bob-ish haircut and cherry red lip gloss, she’s got a pension for high heel boots that go up to the knees. She likes to get on stages in dim clubs and cozy up to the microphone while she sings about the Texas moon or whatever, but no one really cares what she’s singing about, because everyone’s so mesmerized by just the sounds alone that are coming from the stage, sounds that might as well be from another world as far as they’re concerned. But hold your horses just a minute, we’ll get to the music soon. I want you to have all the context you need before we do, because this album deserves it. Underneath the drag persona of Cindy Lee is the real persona of Patrick Flegel, the former lead of Women, that (sorta) indie rock band from Canada that broke up onstage at a concert in 2010. You’ve gotta be a real snob to know this band. But don’t worry if you are, you’re always in good hands with me. However, you don’t need to be as much as a snob to know about their new hypnagogic drag project, Cindy Lee, despite the fact that Flegel seemed to set up extra obstacles for themself with the drop of this new album.
Dig this: Flegel released this album with no promotional campaign, and the only way to listen is either a two hour long YouTube video with no track breaks, or a WAV file from a Geosite. No Spotify, no iTunes, no nothing (“THE CEO OF SPOTIFY IS A THIEF AND A WAR PIG,” reads a disclaimer on the Geosite. “HE STOLE 100 MILLION EURO FROM ROCK AND ROLLERS AND USED THE MONEY TO INVEST INTO ‘HELSING.’ ‘HELSING’ IS A MILITARY ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE INNOVATOR.”).
Yes, you’ll have to seek this one out on your own. And when you do get to that Geosite or YouTube video, and you take a look at the length, your jaw will drop. 2 hours and 2 minutes. In this day and age? Who’ll listen to a two hour long album that has no catchy singles, radio play, social media campaigns, or even physical copies?
A lot of people, it turns out. Maybe Flegel knew it, maybe they didn’t, but the album they created here is such a tour de force, such an achievement in music that it doesn’t need any sort of introduction. In fact, if you had any sense at all, you’d stop reading now and listen to it all, start to finish. But if you’ll listen a while longer, I’ll talk a while longer.
For a better understanding of where I come from with all this, I’d like to recount a disagreement I had with a vinyl store clerk a month or two ago. I was buying a nice pressing of Led Zeppelin’s fourth album, the one with “Stairway to Heaven” on it, finally breaking down and spending an absurd amount of money for a new copy. It’s not hard to find Led Zeppelin II or III used at any vinyl store worth your time, but no one sells their copy of Led Zeppelin IV. Not because it’s the best Zeppelin album, but because it’s a great coffee table album…and there’s nothing totally wrong with that. What’s wrong is when you start to think those coffee table records are the only good ones left.
The kid behind the counter was at least a year or two older than me, but seemed infinitely more sophisticated, as all people on that side of the counter used to seem to me. But then halfway through our conversation about the album, he fixed his mouth to say one of the most foolish things anyone who claims to be into music can say: “They don’t make music like this anymore.”
“How do you mean?” I ask.
He tapped the vinyl cover with his two fingers. “Rock ’n’ roll is dead,” he said.
What an idiot! I thought it, but I didn’t say it. I couldn’t blame the guy too much. I too used to cynically speculate on the death of rock as we knew it. It was true…all the best music of the new generation was the R&B, the hip-hop, the rap, some of the pop, even. And while that isn’t false, I’ll tell you what first made me start to believe again in rock ’n’ roll, just on a smaller scale: King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard.
Late one night, similar to the one in which I first heard this album, I put on two of King Gizz’s albums: I’m In Your Mind Fuzz and The Murder of the Universe. Of course, it wasn’t the same as Zeppelin, or the Stones, or The Who, because making something like that would no longer be rock ’n’ roll. Because yes, while there are some basic qualifiers for the rock genre, the rock ’n’ roll spirit is a different thing entirely.
Real rock ’n’ roll isn’t about the break neck guitar solos or sexy lyrics, and it never was. It’s about taking the rulebook for normal music and taking out the pages you want before burning the rest. It’s about creating something that shocks and awes and is new, and that’s what King Gizz did with the things they put out in the mid-2010s.
I told the clerk that nothing really dies, it just comes back in a new form. I told him I thought we were waiting for some kind of rock renaissance, that—mark my words—there would be something soon to blow the roof off everything. But I’ll admit, I doubted it slightly even as I said it. I had been starved for quite a while for some new brain-warping noises that weren’t from (just) a music production software.
And so that brings us back to the fateful Friday when just before midnight I put on a new album, thinking I was only gonna listen to a few songs. After all, the thing was two hours, and I’d never heard of this Cindy person. But all it took was to sit down and listen to the first two minutes of the title track, and I realized I couldn’t put the thing down until I was over. And I’ll tell you why. If you listen closely, you’ll hear something odd only six seconds into the album as a beachy guitar riff fades in: a mistake! One of the guitar strings is a little buzzy.
There are mistakes and blemishes like this throughout the entire project. But it doesn’t make it worse. In fact, it makes it better. If I can use a painting metaphor, Bob Ross called these similar mishaps in his paintings “happy little accidents.” And that’s exactly what we have here with these offbeat piano switches, unsteady drum lines, and buzzy guitar strings…happy little accidents. They don’t appear too often, but they appear often enough to make the record human. Because the best music is human, and flawed, and compassionate, but most of all it’s human.
But hell, we’re only six seconds into the record and I’m already laying this all on you like some kind of schizophrenic (which I might as well be for this stuff). Let’s return to where we started: the guitar riff. If you’ve listened to enough of the Beach Boys, it may remind you of some of Brian Wilson’s licks. There are playful variations in the initial seconds of the solo guitar as echoing snaps fade in.
Combining healthy reverb on the instruments, distorted wordless vocals, and distant percussion on the next minute of the track, the album takes on a cautiously surreal feeling, like the moment of hesitation before slipping into a daydream. It builds and builds and builds, the drums becoming faster and faster before cutting off when in a single, cleansing instant all the hesitance washes away with the singing of the album’s first lyrics: “In the diamond’s eye / Shining down on me / A single memory / And it’s of you / Of you.” The voice is eerie, but more so beautiful, and ties everything together to create one of the record's greatest accomplishments: the dreamy quality of the sound. Gosh, how can I describe it accurately? It’s a memory of a memory of a memory. It sounds like everything you’ve ever heard on the radio condensed into two hours, but at the same time it sounds like nothing else. Or maybe just nothing you’ve ever heard conscious.
I could spend hours listing all the genres and influences here, and several more listing the ways that Flegel subverts and changes these genres. The largest influences to look to are girl groups, psych rockers, ‘70s rock radio, new wave bands, and the lofi wizards that ruled a small corner of the ‘90s. Flegel carefully assembles this sound palette through the first ten tracks.
Following the mellow opener is the first danceable song here, or at the very least a good head-nodder: “Glitz.” Thundering synths and heavy drums roll through the track, before it suddenly drops off around minute three, going from a total jive to a single echoing acoustic guitar playing the same foreboding riff over and over before closing off, not even returning to any sort of chorus.
“Baby Blue” is a murky doowop waltz, with some of the catchier vocals on the first disc. “Baby, baby, baby blue / Everybody wants a piece of you” has stayed with me, stuck in my head like a strange mantra, and I’m not sure why. Another stellar track is “All I Want is You,” with Flegel showing off their eerier vocals accompanied by a sunny guitar, which will come back later on. In fact, a lot will come back later on. Many times throughout the album, you’ll hear chord progressions, or rhythms, or even lyrics that have appeared previously during the two hour record. And strangely enough, sometimes you’ll hear something you swear you’ve heard before, when really you haven’t. What a trip!
“Le Machiniste Fantôme” is essentially an interlude, but is still one of my favorite tracks on the album. It begins with faint, wordless singing as a flute whines in the background, before the track profoundly devolves into some of the most impactful guitar sounds I have ever experienced, the kind that you feel in your chest. So nostalgic, so familiar, so—
Ah, hell, I’ve heard this before, haven’t I? The answer is yes, dear reader. In fact, it was on this very record. Or was it? This thing is turning into a real mindfuck, and by the time the first disc finishes and the second opens with “Stone Faces,” a morbidly funky number about “Stone faces staring back at me / They saw me on the cover of a magazine / And now these people want a piece of me,” you’ll start to feel a slight dread set in. Following it is “Gayblevision,” the most explicitly new wave track on the record, and one of the most uplifting. The song sounds like an alternate take of some old Talking Heads demo, drenched in the opiate-induced mystique of Lou Reed and The Velvet Underground.
There’s not a bad song on either side of the record, but for the sake of time, let’s skip forward, closer to the end. “What’s it Going To Take,” feels like the beginning of the end for the record, a quiet track that builds into a section of noise but never really climaxes, only fades off into the next song, “Wild Rose,” which brings back another funky guitar tune, and is the last somewhat optimistic track on the album.
From here, everything slowly slides into oblivion, and a light begins to form at the end of the tunnel. Maybe you’re ready for it to end, maybe you’re not. But that light keeps coming closer as the seconds go by. Might as well accept it now, and try and savor whatever is left. You’ll never hear this album for the first time again.
The final lyrics are sung on the second to last track, “Crime of Passion.” I’ve heard this final line at least twelve times in the last week, and I still can’t quite make it all out. It goes something like: “You don’t have to be a [?] / To be wrong / To be wrong.” I can’t tell you what it means exactly, but it still manages to give me goosebumps more often than not.
The final song is a five minute instrumental, “Heaven 24/7.” Cascading strings, droning violins, sparkly percussion…It’s very possible that to acquire the sounds on this track, Pat Flegel assembled some sort of radio that really could transmit a signal to heaven, and then did the best they could to translate it into something we can only vaguely understand.
When the album ends, there is no fade out. The music simply cuts off mid violin note. It’s the musical equivalent to a gunshot to the head—your life (the music!) ends suddenly without any explanation. It’s one final shock to the nervous system, something that creates a sudden void, ripping all the beauty of the music away from you in an instant.
And it’s over.
I appreciate you sticking around so long. As I said, you’re always in good hands with me, and I hope I’m in good hands with you. If we’re in agreement, I’ll go on a little longer, and I’ll tell you where this album fits into music as it stands now. This may very well be the greatest thing to come out in a decade, and if we’re talking about just rock, it may be the best thing since Y2K.
I’m sure I’ll think of twenty more groups after I sell this review, but for now I’ll name a few for you: Arcade Fire, Swans, King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard, Arctic Monkeys, Radiohead, and The Strokes. These are the (popular) bands that I believe helped keep rock ’n’ roll alive from the Bush years all the way through the pandemic.
And some of them come very close, but none of them seem to quite break through the same glass ceiling musically, with the same level of force and upward mobility as this singular album. This is the last Cindy Lee project, but it’s worth just as much as an entire career (But don’t let that stop you from listening to the rest of Cindy Lee’s albums). This album is truly the achievement of a lifetime, something that is truly in the most genuine way moral, however you apply the term to something so abstract.
I’ve caught mild flack for my relentless praise for the album, one of my friends saying, “You’ve got to be an idiot to think this is even the best thing to come out in even five years.” Man! I shoulda slugged him right then and there for calling me something like that while simultaneously trashing something of such greatness…
But really, it’s all my opinion. I mean really, where does an 18-year-old who can barely play a guitar solo get off calling anything good or bad with such confidence? Who calls vinyl clerks “idiots” and talks about slugging his friends over something as trivial as an album? You have to understand, the reason I get so heated here is because I believe art to be one of the only clean currencies left in this dirty social economy, and I believe this is art in its purest form. There is nothing more special than what you and I can share that we enjoy.
I don’t speak about this album the way I do because I believe that there is an objective truth to it. I speak the way I do because more than anything I want you to feel the same thing I did when I listened, I want you to come to the same epiphanies I did, even if there’s only a slight possibility our minds line up enough to spark that same effect. Take the chance, put on the album. It could change your life, kiddo.
So what the hell is this supernatural record I’m talking about? The music which managed to drive me entirely up the wall in the best way possible? Diamond Jubilee is the name of the project. And man, I’ll tell ya, I get my yuk’s just from looking at the cover for this album: an old postcard of a factory in rural Canada, with Cindy Lee herself scribbled over it, cigarette dangling between her fingers.
And just who is this Cindy Lee character I’m talking about? Well, she’s a gal with a bob-ish haircut and cherry red lip gloss, she’s got a pension for high heel boots that go up to the knees. She likes to get on stages in dim clubs and cozy up to the microphone while she sings about the Texas moon or whatever, but no one really cares what she’s singing about, because everyone’s so mesmerized by just the sounds alone that are coming from the stage, sounds that might as well be from another world as far as they’re concerned. But hold your horses just a minute, we’ll get to the music soon. I want you to have all the context you need before we do, because this album deserves it. Underneath the drag persona of Cindy Lee is the real persona of Patrick Flegel, the former lead of Women, that (sorta) indie rock band from Canada that broke up onstage at a concert in 2010. You’ve gotta be a real snob to know this band. But don’t worry if you are, you’re always in good hands with me. However, you don’t need to be as much as a snob to know about their new hypnagogic drag project, Cindy Lee, despite the fact that Flegel seemed to set up extra obstacles for themself with the drop of this new album.
Dig this: Flegel released this album with no promotional campaign, and the only way to listen is either a two hour long YouTube video with no track breaks, or a WAV file from a Geosite. No Spotify, no iTunes, no nothing (“THE CEO OF SPOTIFY IS A THIEF AND A WAR PIG,” reads a disclaimer on the Geosite. “HE STOLE 100 MILLION EURO FROM ROCK AND ROLLERS AND USED THE MONEY TO INVEST INTO ‘HELSING.’ ‘HELSING’ IS A MILITARY ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE INNOVATOR.”).
Yes, you’ll have to seek this one out on your own. And when you do get to that Geosite or YouTube video, and you take a look at the length, your jaw will drop. 2 hours and 2 minutes. In this day and age? Who’ll listen to a two hour long album that has no catchy singles, radio play, social media campaigns, or even physical copies?
A lot of people, it turns out. Maybe Flegel knew it, maybe they didn’t, but the album they created here is such a tour de force, such an achievement in music that it doesn’t need any sort of introduction. In fact, if you had any sense at all, you’d stop reading now and listen to it all, start to finish. But if you’ll listen a while longer, I’ll talk a while longer.
For a better understanding of where I come from with all this, I’d like to recount a disagreement I had with a vinyl store clerk a month or two ago. I was buying a nice pressing of Led Zeppelin’s fourth album, the one with “Stairway to Heaven” on it, finally breaking down and spending an absurd amount of money for a new copy. It’s not hard to find Led Zeppelin II or III used at any vinyl store worth your time, but no one sells their copy of Led Zeppelin IV. Not because it’s the best Zeppelin album, but because it’s a great coffee table album…and there’s nothing totally wrong with that. What’s wrong is when you start to think those coffee table records are the only good ones left.
The kid behind the counter was at least a year or two older than me, but seemed infinitely more sophisticated, as all people on that side of the counter used to seem to me. But then halfway through our conversation about the album, he fixed his mouth to say one of the most foolish things anyone who claims to be into music can say: “They don’t make music like this anymore.”
“How do you mean?” I ask.
He tapped the vinyl cover with his two fingers. “Rock ’n’ roll is dead,” he said.
What an idiot! I thought it, but I didn’t say it. I couldn’t blame the guy too much. I too used to cynically speculate on the death of rock as we knew it. It was true…all the best music of the new generation was the R&B, the hip-hop, the rap, some of the pop, even. And while that isn’t false, I’ll tell you what first made me start to believe again in rock ’n’ roll, just on a smaller scale: King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard.
Late one night, similar to the one in which I first heard this album, I put on two of King Gizz’s albums: I’m In Your Mind Fuzz and The Murder of the Universe. Of course, it wasn’t the same as Zeppelin, or the Stones, or The Who, because making something like that would no longer be rock ’n’ roll. Because yes, while there are some basic qualifiers for the rock genre, the rock ’n’ roll spirit is a different thing entirely.
Real rock ’n’ roll isn’t about the break neck guitar solos or sexy lyrics, and it never was. It’s about taking the rulebook for normal music and taking out the pages you want before burning the rest. It’s about creating something that shocks and awes and is new, and that’s what King Gizz did with the things they put out in the mid-2010s.
I told the clerk that nothing really dies, it just comes back in a new form. I told him I thought we were waiting for some kind of rock renaissance, that—mark my words—there would be something soon to blow the roof off everything. But I’ll admit, I doubted it slightly even as I said it. I had been starved for quite a while for some new brain-warping noises that weren’t from (just) a music production software.
And so that brings us back to the fateful Friday when just before midnight I put on a new album, thinking I was only gonna listen to a few songs. After all, the thing was two hours, and I’d never heard of this Cindy person. But all it took was to sit down and listen to the first two minutes of the title track, and I realized I couldn’t put the thing down until I was over. And I’ll tell you why. If you listen closely, you’ll hear something odd only six seconds into the album as a beachy guitar riff fades in: a mistake! One of the guitar strings is a little buzzy.
There are mistakes and blemishes like this throughout the entire project. But it doesn’t make it worse. In fact, it makes it better. If I can use a painting metaphor, Bob Ross called these similar mishaps in his paintings “happy little accidents.” And that’s exactly what we have here with these offbeat piano switches, unsteady drum lines, and buzzy guitar strings…happy little accidents. They don’t appear too often, but they appear often enough to make the record human. Because the best music is human, and flawed, and compassionate, but most of all it’s human.
But hell, we’re only six seconds into the record and I’m already laying this all on you like some kind of schizophrenic (which I might as well be for this stuff). Let’s return to where we started: the guitar riff. If you’ve listened to enough of the Beach Boys, it may remind you of some of Brian Wilson’s licks. There are playful variations in the initial seconds of the solo guitar as echoing snaps fade in.
Combining healthy reverb on the instruments, distorted wordless vocals, and distant percussion on the next minute of the track, the album takes on a cautiously surreal feeling, like the moment of hesitation before slipping into a daydream. It builds and builds and builds, the drums becoming faster and faster before cutting off when in a single, cleansing instant all the hesitance washes away with the singing of the album’s first lyrics: “In the diamond’s eye / Shining down on me / A single memory / And it’s of you / Of you.” The voice is eerie, but more so beautiful, and ties everything together to create one of the record's greatest accomplishments: the dreamy quality of the sound. Gosh, how can I describe it accurately? It’s a memory of a memory of a memory. It sounds like everything you’ve ever heard on the radio condensed into two hours, but at the same time it sounds like nothing else. Or maybe just nothing you’ve ever heard conscious.
I could spend hours listing all the genres and influences here, and several more listing the ways that Flegel subverts and changes these genres. The largest influences to look to are girl groups, psych rockers, ‘70s rock radio, new wave bands, and the lofi wizards that ruled a small corner of the ‘90s. Flegel carefully assembles this sound palette through the first ten tracks.
Following the mellow opener is the first danceable song here, or at the very least a good head-nodder: “Glitz.” Thundering synths and heavy drums roll through the track, before it suddenly drops off around minute three, going from a total jive to a single echoing acoustic guitar playing the same foreboding riff over and over before closing off, not even returning to any sort of chorus.
“Baby Blue” is a murky doowop waltz, with some of the catchier vocals on the first disc. “Baby, baby, baby blue / Everybody wants a piece of you” has stayed with me, stuck in my head like a strange mantra, and I’m not sure why. Another stellar track is “All I Want is You,” with Flegel showing off their eerier vocals accompanied by a sunny guitar, which will come back later on. In fact, a lot will come back later on. Many times throughout the album, you’ll hear chord progressions, or rhythms, or even lyrics that have appeared previously during the two hour record. And strangely enough, sometimes you’ll hear something you swear you’ve heard before, when really you haven’t. What a trip!
“Le Machiniste Fantôme” is essentially an interlude, but is still one of my favorite tracks on the album. It begins with faint, wordless singing as a flute whines in the background, before the track profoundly devolves into some of the most impactful guitar sounds I have ever experienced, the kind that you feel in your chest. So nostalgic, so familiar, so—
Ah, hell, I’ve heard this before, haven’t I? The answer is yes, dear reader. In fact, it was on this very record. Or was it? This thing is turning into a real mindfuck, and by the time the first disc finishes and the second opens with “Stone Faces,” a morbidly funky number about “Stone faces staring back at me / They saw me on the cover of a magazine / And now these people want a piece of me,” you’ll start to feel a slight dread set in. Following it is “Gayblevision,” the most explicitly new wave track on the record, and one of the most uplifting. The song sounds like an alternate take of some old Talking Heads demo, drenched in the opiate-induced mystique of Lou Reed and The Velvet Underground.
There’s not a bad song on either side of the record, but for the sake of time, let’s skip forward, closer to the end. “What’s it Going To Take,” feels like the beginning of the end for the record, a quiet track that builds into a section of noise but never really climaxes, only fades off into the next song, “Wild Rose,” which brings back another funky guitar tune, and is the last somewhat optimistic track on the album.
From here, everything slowly slides into oblivion, and a light begins to form at the end of the tunnel. Maybe you’re ready for it to end, maybe you’re not. But that light keeps coming closer as the seconds go by. Might as well accept it now, and try and savor whatever is left. You’ll never hear this album for the first time again.
The final lyrics are sung on the second to last track, “Crime of Passion.” I’ve heard this final line at least twelve times in the last week, and I still can’t quite make it all out. It goes something like: “You don’t have to be a [?] / To be wrong / To be wrong.” I can’t tell you what it means exactly, but it still manages to give me goosebumps more often than not.
The final song is a five minute instrumental, “Heaven 24/7.” Cascading strings, droning violins, sparkly percussion…It’s very possible that to acquire the sounds on this track, Pat Flegel assembled some sort of radio that really could transmit a signal to heaven, and then did the best they could to translate it into something we can only vaguely understand.
When the album ends, there is no fade out. The music simply cuts off mid violin note. It’s the musical equivalent to a gunshot to the head—your life (the music!) ends suddenly without any explanation. It’s one final shock to the nervous system, something that creates a sudden void, ripping all the beauty of the music away from you in an instant.
And it’s over.
I appreciate you sticking around so long. As I said, you’re always in good hands with me, and I hope I’m in good hands with you. If we’re in agreement, I’ll go on a little longer, and I’ll tell you where this album fits into music as it stands now. This may very well be the greatest thing to come out in a decade, and if we’re talking about just rock, it may be the best thing since Y2K.
I’m sure I’ll think of twenty more groups after I sell this review, but for now I’ll name a few for you: Arcade Fire, Swans, King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard, Arctic Monkeys, Radiohead, and The Strokes. These are the (popular) bands that I believe helped keep rock ’n’ roll alive from the Bush years all the way through the pandemic.
And some of them come very close, but none of them seem to quite break through the same glass ceiling musically, with the same level of force and upward mobility as this singular album. This is the last Cindy Lee project, but it’s worth just as much as an entire career (But don’t let that stop you from listening to the rest of Cindy Lee’s albums). This album is truly the achievement of a lifetime, something that is truly in the most genuine way moral, however you apply the term to something so abstract.
I’ve caught mild flack for my relentless praise for the album, one of my friends saying, “You’ve got to be an idiot to think this is even the best thing to come out in even five years.” Man! I shoulda slugged him right then and there for calling me something like that while simultaneously trashing something of such greatness…
But really, it’s all my opinion. I mean really, where does an 18-year-old who can barely play a guitar solo get off calling anything good or bad with such confidence? Who calls vinyl clerks “idiots” and talks about slugging his friends over something as trivial as an album? You have to understand, the reason I get so heated here is because I believe art to be one of the only clean currencies left in this dirty social economy, and I believe this is art in its purest form. There is nothing more special than what you and I can share that we enjoy.
I don’t speak about this album the way I do because I believe that there is an objective truth to it. I speak the way I do because more than anything I want you to feel the same thing I did when I listened, I want you to come to the same epiphanies I did, even if there’s only a slight possibility our minds line up enough to spark that same effect. Take the chance, put on the album. It could change your life, kiddo.