Brad Roberts digs weirdness. That may not seem like a
thundering revelation given his propensity for calibrating
the realities of enlightened mallards, listless deities,
traumatized children, recalcitrant superheroes and frankly,
cunnilingus, over the course of three watershed albums.
Here we are in Harlem and the Crash Test Dummies' commander
is utterly in his element as he hoofs down West 148th
Street like some kind of miscreant tour guide. He gleefully
points out a grandmother outfitted in her Sunday best
yackety-yakking on a stoop, hauling on a cigarette. Noting
a neighbor's tawdry brownstone lovingly gussied up with
silver tinsel for Christmas, he merely chuckles, turning
the corner at Broadway and converging on the crazy old dude
painting the ether blue wit More...
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