Forget Christopher Nolan and all of that silly Inception nonsense.
Alan Vega and Martin Rev are the real architects of sleep. They crawl into my brain and perform my lucid dreaming for me. They'd influence me to float in a hallway, wrapping people in wire, ski towards a snowy bunker and sign off a company from my ailing father. Or something more spectacular. Like make hot Joey Heatherton re-emerge to find my perfect Serta sleeper, clad in sexy pant-suit and dance routine, directly after we go back in time, forcing her ex Dallas Cowboys husband Lance Rentzel to not commit that act of indecent exposure on a 10-year-old girl.
And then there's the great Fassbinder, whom I dream about frequently (or dream of being), who had the taste and beautifully warped sense to get on Suicide's 1977 "Frankie Teardrop" for his 1978's In a Year of 13 Moons. Unlike, Nolan, Fassbinder understood dreams. Or rather, he knew how to properly not understand them.
And "Dream Baby Dream" ... I will dream. A sweet and sinister dream -- a dream in which I awake wondering why I feel like I was sweetly rocked to beddy-bye by Laird Cregar in I Wake Up Screaming. It feels so good and so ... wonderfully wrong.
This is all a compliment to the sublime Suicide, of course.
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