Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the western spiral arm of the Galaxy lies a small unregarded yellow sun. Orbiting this at a distance of roughly ninety-two million miles is an utterly insignificant little blue green planet whose ape-descended life forms are so amazingly primitive that they still think digital watches are a pretty neat idea.
Ole Beetlebrow sure knows how to make a hulking behemoth of a song. It starts off as you would expect. A little bit of tension builds into a soaring conclusion. Then he does it again. And then again. And then again. He doesn’t know how to end it, but he sure has that middle part down.