"You have a lot of knots, Mr. DiCrescenzo."

"Mm."

"You should try not to work at the computer so much."

"Comes with the territory, Kelly. That's the life of a music critic. It's not just concerts and fashion shows," I remarked with a chuckle. I was in Dry Press Coin Laundry and Massage, Hoboken, New Jersey getting some deep muscle relaxation. Pitchfork had shuttled me up to write about the new Lotion disc. Before getting to work on the review, I stopped in to visit Kelly. She could always work out those coach- seat cramps. Plus, unlike most of the other masseuses across the globe, Kelly seemed unfazed by my celebrity critic aura. She was all business. But she had terrible taste in music. I believe the local lite FM station was playing.

"Kelly, put on Lotion for me," I asked.

"But you said that makes you smell like a sissy."

"Oh no," I giggled. "Not that lotion! The band Lotion."

"Hmm. I've never heard of them," she sadly said.

"Well, it's a crime that most people haven't. They're glorious pop rock. Seemingly straight forward, but laced with manic quirks," I drolly rattled off.

"Oh wow, you said that so poetically! If anyone can make them famous, I'm sure it's you with your rock-star like popularity!"

"Kelly, please. I'm bigger than a rock star."

"Sorry, Mr. DiCrescenzo."

"Brent. Just Brent, Kelly."

Kelly walked over to the CD player and popped in The Telephone Album. I could feel my muscles already begin to grow taut. I need to talk to Ryan about getting me First Class seats. This is getting ridiculous. The opening track "Rich Cop, Poor Cop" kicked in. Its first twenty seconds held more twists and turns than an Alpine highway. Man, these Lotion guys just sound like they're having a blast. I need to see them live.

"Work the lats, Kelly, if you could please."

"Hey, this is pretty good! Does the whole album sound like this?"

"Oh, you'll see. Patience," I said wisely. The sincere jangle of "Feedback Queen" came through the PA. Kelly and I bobbed our head back and forth to the "Bye bye!" chorus refrains.

"Yes! Handclaps! I love those," Kelly said as she slapped my back synchronously. Lotion is the definition of essential pop-rock-- dueling vocalists, powerful chords, surprising solos, production tricks. Each song could be a single. Lotion are the Beatles of Northeastern bars.

"These guys are great guitarists," Kelly noted, "I love this riff." She was talking about "No. 99." It was one of those riffs where you can't quite tell where it starts and stops.

"Real good. Just pay attention to the original chord changes and tiny flourishes they added on. It's so hard to keep it fresh these days."

"I agree. Man, I need to copy this. These songs are sticking in my head like a... like a..."

"...Like a fly trapped in your hairsprayed, teased bangs?" I blurted.

"Hee hee! Now I see why you're the writer!"

"Oh, it's nothing."

"It comes natural to you. Just like songwriting must come to Lotion. The songs all start somewhat dully but then take off before the end," Kelly commented.

"Good point. I'll quote you on that. When you think a song will just be a standard mid-tempo rocker, it's blasts off with streaking guitars and propulsive percussion."

"I need to buy this," Kelly said.

"Hey, take this copy. Consider it a tip," I said. "Cheap bastard," Kelly thought.

"Yeah, this sounds like Sloan and the Wrens, and I love them," Kelly said.

"Wow! I see you've been reading my reviews."

"I've always been a big fan."

I rolled off the table and slipped on my satin Pitchfork jacket.

"Well, Kelly, I must be off. I have to go do this review. Just put this on my Pitchfork tab."

-Brent Dicrescenzo