... eternal devotional gratatitude towards Charlie Bennett & Freudian Press...

Remember a time, remember it well, when the neon-street nesty autumnal bluffs of this orphaned rivertown was a bookmark to a fairytale, a time when one could traipse into the cargo fraught chestnut coffee shop and wade into an aerie carousel plume of smoke as if doing chin-ups above a cloud, a time where there was flannel and there was an (excess of hemp and patchouli) and there was local poetry readings downtown and there was art . A time when our tresses scaled back from the cognizant attics of our respective scalps like Rapunzel patiently awaiting the tug of a wished-for suitor. A minstrel. A wizened gen-x troubadour who wields his guitar upsidedown pelting out acoustic locomotive frets of loneliness, whispered epistles of eternity, symphonic folk anthems culled from the leftover childhood magic in the air of a cradled lullaby-- the compass of a dream.

The music of Charlie Bennett a la Freudian Press encapsulated the transient echo of this time that still somehow reverberates in the interior artistic kiln of outsider artists everywhere who just don’t give a Freudian phuck knowing that, while ambling down the lonely arteries of that gypsy road clad only in the Mr. lazy bones of his flesh, with nothing in his pockets save for a Tommy Jones mortgage of ambition and change, the music of Freudian Press will be there, the solitary sound the last copper-colored leaf of autumn makes as it sheds the wick of the birch tree branch and hushes to the ground exploding into the sun of all mankind. Experience the music of Freudian Press Thanxgiving eve at the whammy bar.Welcome home Charlie. Timeless as it may seem, a delightful indulgence of a dared afternoon daydream.

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