Loosely haptic, yet none too didactic, s.t. monroe exists in a brief but s-l-o-w liminal state, deducting stereotomically their sound from the edifice of the now traditional and elderly post-modern, while tracing the rise and sprawl of sprawl, and remembering with shivering giddiness the ups and back-downs of their 5 distinct backgrounded upbringings. Shunning, coyly, any pretentious imprimaturs other than the floor joists (despite their collective love of pretentious imprimaturs)...
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