Yes, we all know you've been to Norway. The reason we all know you've been to Norway, fucknutz, is because all of us were stuck in line behind you at Market East Station that Sunday afternoon as you held up the goddamn queue by spending 20 minutes lecturing the SEPTA worker on the other side of the window about the superiority of the Norwegian train system which you recently availed yourself of on a "spiritual sojourn through Scandinavia." Then, as if to add insult to assholery, when the beleaguered ticket-seller — thanks for achieving the impossible, asshole; you made me feel sorry for a SEPTA employee — proposed that you email your suggestions to SEPTA, you rolled your eyes and said "I don't use email" in a tone of voice which implied that never touching a keyboard somehow made you the next fucking Gandhi.
Karl Seglem's Ossicles is almost the sort of light, jazzy crap that shitbirds like Mr. Norway-Has-an-Excellent-Nine-Tiered-Ticketing-System always seem to have a hard-on for. "Almost" ended up in the previous sentence because, occasionally — as during "Sognabad" — dark little motifs sneak in and snake their way about. That song would be perfect background music for a human sacrifice and, unless he was able to sneak up on a sleeping speckled Norwegian barn mollusk, I have a pretty good idea where we can find a virgin.
Verdict: It's the little touches of odd, droning instruments like goat and antelope horn that save Ossicles (but not at least one goat and one antelope).
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