A love song about giving away two hundred acres of family farmland because the project manager is five foot nine and wears a tight vest.
It opens with a deranged cartoon voice asking if this is the real life. It is not. It’s fiber optics. Then the drop hits like a firestarter with a crush: breakbeat aggression, buzzsaw synths, and a frontman growling about zoning variances with the unhinged joy of a man who has never once been down with the sickness, only up with it. This is rage music for people who are having a great time. Every scream is a scream of love.
The story, as testimony: a Suburban pulls up on a Tuesday. A woman says “hyperscale campus.” Our hero says “yes ma’am” and never recovers. He wears his only tie to a seven-hour zoning meeting and testifies against his own cousins. His pastor preaches against him. The paper runs his name. The water table drops. The creek is on hospice. He regrets nothing, because she’s on site Monday through Thursday, and love makes cooling towers look like Notre Dame.
The facility will create eleven permanent jobs. He only wants one. Grandpa is still buried by the creek. For now.
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