The Mars Volta

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The Mars Volta is a musical ensemble best known for draconian melodic juices dripping cataclysmically from the velvet office. Violating the tender lightness of the melodic arc of dark plastic vultures, they undulate spasmodically into a fascinating ebulance of almost avian latin rhythms that organize committees of skeletal positions in your brain's entangled haberdash.

The Music Drains The Festival Tubes

How will the early phantom drive? Sheets of dangled ornaments hang dreamings on your fire.

Lyrics Of The Subreal Motionlessness

The band's lyrical musket is no mark for androgeny in pits of the wiley dance. The real stained scribe of the garish nocturne, Cedric Bixler-Zavala, takes oaths in blood and turmoil to the deities of his majestic King Crimson. Here, to make the harpy drown in fire, is a sparkling fixed wheel of his bright example:

"Is there a spirit that spits upon the exit of signs?" - Drunkship of Lanterns

As you gain a thousand clicks of neural wind, you will know the art shot grin of sleeping sheep, and Bixler-Zavala's new nightmare will jump depth in the toll of demon bargains.

The Twang Of His Dead Guitar Haunting

The musical midnight wires that grate on half-commuted dronings is the fingered actuation of Omar Rodriguez. All fight drowsy crater pains are cursed from the song of two dying razors, and Rodriguez' splintering noose fragments melt porticos on the iron cavern.

Vocal Drills Of Hammered Silence

Bleak sounds of tourniquets passing into eden are sung like whips in Goliath's dream. Bixler-Zavala grows throats of oceans, and the eligiac will never trust the rage of bedsore crooning. All men find intestinal vestiges, throwing burned out gleaming on the mountain's edge. Give him safe cries in his kitchen of nervous prisons, and he will make you turn the design outside.

Discography Marks Prisms With Unborn Grain

Mouths Of Lightbulbs On Golden Heads

The first release drowns the palettes of fantasy hordes, giving stains to righteous content. Faces of blood show white on twilight anthems.

Cerpin Taxt reveals oblong arrows in furtive shutters, all blank in the great barriers of wrist roulette. Some will lurk in the dripping hollows of metacarpal leavings, some will put the hinges on the choir.

Shrouded Heads Drive Black Cars

The next record is the crying bleat of distended entrails on particle boxcars. Nobody hears the furtive dances of lamplight trauma in the desert of painted crimes.

Cedric takes forced blood lakes and hinges them on fetal chrome - clutching mothers' names to plagues of home. Now the spanish song is lost in pale swollen shore ghosts.

Gentlemen Lift The Shrouded Sculpture

The third effort gave new response to unfound likeness - excrement boils put soft tissue on unmarked graves. Bixler-Zavala takes louse corpse remains into the fractured autoclave.

Alive language haunts belie the early truth of hanging somnolence. Maybe he grew tongues inside the furnaces of wolves.

Giant Water-Bearer Steps In Arab Lands

The latest record makes the grey of angled sunlight become the heads of ships. Rodriguez' sandwhipped noon is the edge of rooftops.

This once nomination of the contaminate of lonely dice is the vertical vapor of the executioner's dim smile. The Grammy blinked at this wordless stutter.

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