The Disco Biscuits

The Disco Biscuits are nocturnal madmen burning the barns of your brain. They are arsonists of convention; diseased and feral creatures set loose amidst the mental nudist colony.
The Biscuits are the interchangers—the translator's of the stratosphere's mother-tongue. They are the thinking man's techno—the purported sire of Johann Bach and Afrikaa Bambataa, throwing sand at the other kids in the sandbox.
They pillage where others merely forage. They are not critters but exquisite beasts composed of bass and meter.
They send 16-yr. old girls into orgasmic and frenetic rain dances, puppeteering their pheromones like so many dark and libidinous marauders of the id…

*~*~*

Give me Biscuits any day.

Give me a four-man machine banging out the symphonies by which the Demons of the Mind chase you in the night. Sound Tribe? Please. I care not for mindless and inexplicable segues or purposeful moments of anti-climax. Give me not a happy ending but a mind-blowing orgasm from Aphrodite herself: the feeling of goddesses tugging gently at your pudenda.

Biscuits are what Beethoven hears while drowning and being torn apart by sharks.

Often I find myself equating music with candy—for what two better earthly concoctions exist? (and all the better, since I consume both of theme with voracious criticism).
Sound Tribe? Pssshaaw. That shit's gummi worms—empty and thrilless.
Biscuits is blowin' Pixie Stix straight up your nose and waiting for the drip.