[engl] You're being urgently, naughtily rushed up the tallest, steepest stairs you've ever climbed. Smile cautiously as the Uranium Club welcomes you into their stinky apartment. You've been here before, right? Oh, that must have been some one else. Do you have a brother or sister? One of the members mumbles some deceptively eloquent bullshit as he hands you a drink. His lips are dark red and chapped; he looks really bad. But the drink is wet, and those stairs had been tall. Sit down, lean back, sip it. There's salt in it, some pulp, some pebbles. It rolls around your tongue, hides between your teeth, a perfectly TV-worthy combination of pleasure and mischief. Swallow it. But spit it out... Spit it out now! It's supposed to go into your ears! How crazy is that? Such a sensation of taste, transmogrified for the realm of sound? Is it Sprite, or is it... music? Careful, engaging, and dare-I-say theatrical vocals over hyper bass-and-drums while other boingy-boingy instruments puke all over it, all over the whole show. That's called synesthesia. Gentle lectures, dangerous storytime, eerie fast-and-slow nightmare riffs, and a taut, bound-and-gagged rhythm section. Boingily-boingily, that's phantasmagoria. That's the Uranium Club's latest album, "The Cosmo Cleaners." So swish around some mouthwash and plug in your AirPods, kid, it's time to drop that needle!