The album is sometimes called a “soundtrack to schizophrenia” and a “visionary solo effort,” but became delegated to bargain bins shortly after its release in the spring of 1969. However, those who did hear it were instantly drawn into Spence’s inimitable sonic surrealism.
173 Alexander Spence – Oar
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Sometimes your lone voice crying out in the wilderness is right while all the rest of the world is wrong. And sometimes you’re David Rubinson. According to Wikipedia, the record label said “these are just demos, we’re not releasing them” and the artist himself said, “those are just demos, don’t put those out” but David Rubinson insisted that they be released and now here I am almost 50 years later having to listen to this garbage.
Music reviewers sometimes hear a really cool (probably untrue, because artists are liars) story about the making of a record and then tell people they have to listen to the record because it gives the reviewer an excuse to tell the cool story. Yes, yes, fire axes and mental institutions and a motorcycle, it’s all very compelling. But just tell me the story and don’t make me listen to this unfinished, rambling dreck.
There is nothing about this album that warrants listening to it. This is out of tune talk-singing over semi-formed quasi-songs for 45 minutes or so. This album is without any merit whatsoever.
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