I'm back.
Rowley's Propeller Part made me shit myself.
Geoff Rowley could put out a part filled with him pushing down a cracked sidewalk, and I would watch it, but no....Rowley risks impalement upon a spiked fence because jumping between buildings isn't enough to appease his own demons; demons usually get their man, but not Rowley ever... never Rowley. Rowley is iron and rebar and pitch when others are only skin bone and blood.
Rowley is practically a winged gargoyle compared to today's young guns, yet here he is slaughtering every ditch as if they were perfectly poured skate parks instead of shit-crusted skull cracking hell slopes running with fissures, bumps, dust, gravel, hobo blood and the drought crushed dreams of fertile American farmland turned into bone bleached desert Rowley doesn't need water to soothe the parched lips of the newly ragged children of America's next dust bowl. He will come to your children and feed them with his blood of his wounds as if it were Steinbeck's own indecent breast brimming with ultraviolent moloko instead of milk.
Witness Rowley's utter lack of terror and know that you are a simpering pansy hiding behind keyboards, glowing blue screens, icy whip-cream-topped coffee and the reassuring hum of your air conditioning. Rowley conquers his fear the same way that America conquered the Nazis: bodycount.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go listen to Nas preach.
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