No no no.
My theory is that Tim Buckley had a thousand tiny gnomes in his throat, each crafting more and more intricate notes, each trying to produce them as fast as possible, dumping them one after another from his mouth, their output washing voluminously into the microphone, each trying to make them more and more elaborate to appease the dragon-queen Quarandara, who will take on gnomish form and mate with the gnome who makes the most grand quavering piece of over-inflected moaning that will still fit through Buckley's gaping golden lips.
This theory would, at least, explain the overwrought goulash that slathers this wax, and would be perfectly in line with the preposterous mythologizing that it endeavors to pile higher and higher to the heavens. It's so preposterous, so overblown, it makes The Pentangle sound like Blind Lemon motherfucking Jefferson.
I didn't like it 1.5/5
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