Frank Spilker lets discourse pop dance again.
“Pretentious pseudo-lyricism won’t bring us the revolution!” scolds Frank Spilker, who, considering the fact that he abhors the zeitgeist so profoundly, knows it damn well. In his songs, he wanders through the capitalist-narcissistic world between bags of cake crumbs and cranesbills, dick pics and counter-yoga, soy cream and oat milk, wishes he was back in the ivory tower, but then he can’t…
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