 Forrest McCullough On record as the youngest excommunication in the history of Peru, my "official" split with God happened at the undeniably impressionable age of four. Fortunately, the thirty-six year interim between my childhood bout with lycanthropy and my recent series of angelic visions has come to an end. So as to feed the ravenous spiritual hunger within, my musical intake now consists of nothing but The Good Twins, the great Reverend Ernest Franklin, and most recently, Flight F-I-N-A-L. Released, coincidentally, in the same year as my falling from grace, Flight F-I-N-A-L follows the path of heavenbound do-gooders from Earth's boarding gate to the supersonic flight through space to the final destination, the Big Guy's throne. (Those of you who think I'm referring to Gordon Jump's commode, I'll see you in church this Sunday.) The metaphor of an airline ride for the soul's journey to heaven is dramatized in strictly literal terms, and plays out something like what you'd expect from a Southern Baptist radio station caught in a 1963 timewarp. Some might find the whole listening experience eerie and unsettling; I find it the perfect substitute for psychedelia in my collection, now that I've burned all my 13th Floor Elevators records. Some might find God's voice on this album to sound strangely akin to John Wayne's; I myself now can only fall asleep to "Rio Bravo" playing on the telly. Flight F-I-N-A-L has allayed all my afterlife fears and put all my doubt to rest, except for one burning question: will there still be a roomful of Gorf machines with unlimited credits waiting for me when I die, as God promised me in the very early 80s?
Review by Quinzio |