PSAs on TV tell kids "don't smoke" and "just say no to drugs." Similarly, record reviews point out that "Le Tigre is smokin'" and "just say no to the Explosion." In the late '80s Sting and Kristy McNichols kept America's USA Network-watching youth off crack with one hand while saving the whales with the other. Today, Pitchfork keeps hard-earned pocket change from being dropped on mediocre recordings with one hand. I'm not at liberty to say what is done with the other.

Both PSAs and record reviews are philosophically grounded in the G.I. Joe school of "knowing is half the battle." Just as Partnership for a Drug-Free America's Politburo once sat around a board table and nodded knowingly when their marketing consultant baited, "Hey, who here has ever fried an egg? Every one of you? Exactly!," the Pitchfork Politburo has suggested I review Her Space Holiday's Home is Where You Hang Yourself by relating the album to an experience to which our readers can relate.

THIS IS A DEAD-END TEMP JOB.

I know my weaknesses and can admit that the Alanis Morissette Lyric Generator can describe the dead-end temp job experience with more eloquence than I can. It seemed appropriate in content as well as in form as the site is a quintessential "temp-toy."

I feel miserable
Paper clips tear at my foundations
I feel miserable
Free candies rot the flesh from my bones
I feel miserable
Time cards are doing their best to impale my soul
I want to die

Is it because I'm a temp slave that I feel this way?
With the blue rays of misery pounding on my brain?
Or am I lost in a tale of Edgar Allan Poe, adrift far from home
I don't think so, I don't think so.

THIS IS A DEAD-END TEMP JOB ON HER SPACE HOLIDAY.

I feel nice
The office now has those plastic-coated paper clips
I don't feel them or the guitars
Floating among tracks of drum machine sequences
Synth organ drones and soft electronic accents
Reminiscent of flying saucers and fake wind
This candy is in the Space Holiday office is sweet
But as long as I don't listen too long
It's not quite sugary enough to rot my teeth

I feel nice, I feel fuzzy, I feel dreamy
Of course, none of this Zoloft-rock has any shot at impaling my soul
I feel nice, I feel nothing, I float away
Is it because of Her Space Holiday that I feel this way?

I check out the disc I just popped into the CD-ROM in my cubicle's computer. It's the first half of a 2xCD called Home is Where You Hang Yourself. The second song, "Snakecharmer," begins. Her Space Holiday's audio-Prozac begins to melt the abject flatness of a corporate law office into a slow, dreamy space-rock haze. Things seem different. I take a look around the place.

I vaguely remembered photographs of the corporation's partners framed and mounted on the reception area wall. In their place now were photographs of Bedhead, Codeine, and Low. I heard one of the secretaries whispering that they kept a photo of Yo La Tengo in the desk to look at now and then, but didn't display it in the reception area as the photo was too dirty and "loud," even as it had softened with age and sunlight. The receptionist had a soft, airy voice with a dragging but measured tempo that made his words blend into meaningless syllables. The clock's ticking became a lethargic percussive track, hypnotizing with its smooth regularity.

In the conference room, they flatly discussed passion while swilling balanced tracks of layered narcotics. This album's lyrics are mostly about the fragile optimism that is produced when love interacts with things like suicidal tendencies and anorexia, but the production, songwriting, and emotionlessly dreamy tone are all pill-pushing slow-core opiate clichés.

THIS IS A DEAD-END TEMP JOB ON HER SPACE HOLIDAY'S REMIX DISC.

This is the law office's space-themed holiday party. Her Space Holiday's Marc Bianchi sent invitations to Aspera Ad Astra, Bright Eyes, and Duster. He sent two invitations to himself. This party is over-produced, fancy and boring, but it's faster and more awake. There are trays of dehydrated space food hors d'oeuvres which the host serves to the guests with preprogrammed rhythms. Rather than slipping into detached daydreams, you are awake and aware of your surroundings. In fact, you're having small-talk with Bright Eyes! Just say no!

ANY QUESTIONS?

-Kristin Sage Rockermann