The following interview excerpt between Kato Kaelin and Soundass collaborator, writer, and poet Goosey Soderbergh courtesy of Rolling Stone:

"KK: I just wanted to talk about the album a little bit. First of all, love it! Can you tell me what this tracklist means to you?

GS: It's an album that relies on its interconnectedness.

KK: Interconnectedness how? Within the actual songs?

GS: Yes. The interconnectedness of the universe is present within the interconnectedness of this set-list.

KK: Meaning what exactly?

GS: Meaning that every track relates to the next. It all builds up until it is complete, creating a perfect selection of madness for the fans, who we hate.

KK: Looooove it!!!! Can you tell me what the album means to you?

GS: Let me answer that with a story. I was asked to speak at a linguistics seminar. The information I was asked to relay to the crowd was wholly strange, as I don’t know anything about linguistics. I hardly know anything about the one language I speak! There were many obscure shapes and symbols displayed that I did not recognize, and a loud blaring sound was on constant loop as I spoke. Loud spikes of harsh tone and cascading rhythms bounced off the walls of the auditorium, and the man with the smallest head paid fare to those in the front who wanted to see the show properly. Soon enough, people were pushing each other over, crushing skulls, squishing brains, and shoving their boots through the floorboards. I was trying to speak, but the crowd was too loud. They were all schismatic and disloyal to my presentation, and they needed to be redeemed. So I blocked my shop onstage, and made it impossible for a single cretin to hear a word of my presentation. I looked over at my benefactors twice or more to escape the crushing confines of what was quickly becoming a dense threat. They nodded and motioned for me to continue — it was going great.

It came from somewhere in the middle of the crowd, those bad stinging needles that flew through the air. They had no home and they had no right mind, so they were doomed to pierce me. Whatever happened to the call log? That’s all I was thinking about as I was being shitskinned and bluntfucked in front of everyone. What was the call log that got me here? Who called me? What was my significance? Before I had gone to the seminar, I had to first go back to where my mother was buried to make sure we were still in tact. It was a sign of my disappointment and a token of my esteem. Yet, my esteem was optimistically unhinged and tethered only in part to the place in my brain that detects anger. But no anger prepared me for that moment. I had seen myself clearly before, but saw nothing then. This was a moment of full-fledged, unfiltered, pure hatred, and I felt it. What I didn’t feel was a connection to the extreme, the painstaking heartache obtained only by allowance, stomped ahead only by greed, and renovated only by choice. There was no internal systematic fix built in, I was responsible. And when I would revisit that part of myself, I was invested only for my own advancement. Yet, the advancement of myself was only allowed if the advancement of others was achieved first. Not a selection, but the whole gambit. From then until now, not more than what there was. How did I know this would come to me, through the crowd? My own exploitation was the internal revolution of the people before me. So, my presentation continued and I wasn’t prepared to stop. The see-saw had flipped, and I found myself on the other side of my own self-analysis. And this, a self-analysis I felt no connection to and no love for. How is this any different than before?

The only way I could possibly fathom the pathway I was taking was to relate it to an old tale I heard some time prior, in an old folk’s home in another town. It begins as such: many years ago, an alien child was born to a human mother. She had been in preparation for several months and when the day came there was nothing left to prepare for. Of every child there are two or three of similar virtue and poise, if only to a modest extent. So it was to her surprise, and to the surprise of the people around her, that the child that was pushed unto the Earth was nonhuman.

To understand this, we must first understand the brick. One large, blinding white brick in an old mausoleum. It had formed several days earlier, and inside it held many small black dots. These bricks were trapped with strings, a collaboration of mystic energy and raw creation. They’re held together where they can be observed and witnessed, though one slipped away. It was lost for a few moments and inevitably saw its fate in the old mausoleum. Many bricks stayed there, big and small and of all colors. To fill a small whole, a blinding white brick was placed accordingly. And so it sat, newly installed. Completely still. Alone. Within it, existence began. Inside the brick there were hundreds of galaxies, and inside those many more. If one were to follow from and read aloud the amount of galaxies one must travel before reaching Earth, one would be reading for over forty years.

If one were to travel into the brick, one would cease to exist. The body would morph and dance. It would jiggle and shake and triumph over itself again and again. One would become a fluttering celestial voice, rumbling the fabrics of what’s around it — fitting into the boundaries that are all around. At the center of this a battle stands within itself, challenging the forces. These forces are so high and mighty that they are too above themselves to actually take part in their own battle. So, they let others do it for them. And it is the rumbling in the fabric, the celestial voice, that is manipulated. Shoved all around. It bounces off the imaginary walls, smacking stars and crash-landing on planets. There are no rules in the battle, the godly forces answer to no one. Many years later, it will halt. There will be no forfeit, no victory, no loser. The battle will just be over.

You find the anchor in the set-up. That’s why the blue-soaked packs of blockheads can’t stalk your memory for very long. It just isn’t the practiced way of looking at things, and practicality is only important in a looser form, a flow of wild shapes and ridges in output. There is a definitive: the Walker. No muses be held, that’s a shape by way of young vulnerability and fear of getting stale. The Walker bets land on your head, but holds out for your return before days change and tides turn. If he were on the rocks, your ass would be left in the field. You knew that to be true, and he knows how to frame it for you when you come back.

The light was shifting, trudging black mass and sacrificing thickness for reality-based shape control. It’s a source of idealistic success and prosperity, and all of its mystical titles can be said in summation merely by calling it by its name. So when the time came, he formed a strange pattern to follow, then willfully rejected it. At this point, there was little in the way of interpretation but much in the way of core framework. There were shades of loose change, burgeoning ideas that would take on a larger shape someday. This is a complimentary blissful way of viewing progress and evolution, but in reality the process is an exercise in complete terror. Painstaking growth and remarkably frustrating pops and snaps make up much of its early stages, and teetering consciousness its latter. The stages aren’t uniform, nor are they a part of a whole. The whole — that which we erroneously refer to as “evolution” — is not a present calculated growth at all, but rather a predetermined change of shape. These rudimentary shifts, though strange and unkind, were not persistently experimental or revolutionary. Just as this brick had caused a systematic shift that had been prepared for decades, one had caused the same before it and one will cause the same again. These wild jumps become not-so-wild upon inspecting the interior.

He may begin to re-emerge at this point, not into literal creation on Earth, but a personal one beforehand. The body does not contain these moments, but a part of him is undeniably breathing. It may not be perfectly reasonable or even explicable, but it is a fundamental nonetheless. The quiet is deafeningly loud and piercing, and this little fucker is thrown forward.

And then, light-speed. Faster than light-speed. One would go at whatever speed they like, until they’ve lost control. The body pushes forward at unholy speeds and touches down on one of the unlimited planets available. After that, rebirth. Creation, the separation from the womb. A single incarnation, perplexed of its surroundings forced into our world. Thus, when this alien was given to her, she screamed in terror, and then cried with joy.

This ends the story, as opposed to just leaving it the way that it is. The clarity had been smudged away, and that reality was chained to an old ideal that’s out of reach now. It’s a value judgment, and it varies from person-to-person, but doesn’t it seem like a foreign concept from the start? There’s something else going on here, and we’re doing a really good job of seeing it. So what else is going on here?

How that story was put together, from beyond its narrator, puts its outcome into perspective. It’s a story that commented on the nature of its own process. Sometimes that’s more natural in its explanation, and if you pay attention you can notice it issuing a warning on its own creation. There were comments throughout: he, she, it had made doubly sure of that. In form and in protest, the conscious narration serves as a means of understanding the very nature of the form itself. This is something that can be said of every word of every sentence.

One struggles to make sense of much of this. I am unaware of who wrote it or where it came from or what it’s even saying, yet its footprint has stretched far and wide. One may not know very well, but they are tied and tethered to it — undoubtedly. We were drawn back to that moment, the old space and loud crash. What do I see in this story? The burden of insight? The perils of deep penetration… into the creation of things? What kind of reaction should one even have to that? There was no love for it, so I was doomed to the hot hellscape of my particular situation. And sometimes that’s a necessary realization — maybe the wrong realization — but a necessary one. This sums up what I’ve been blabbering about up until this point. The story creates an irreconcilable dichotomy tormented by remorse. The alien cannot get from the clutches of the world, yet the world cannot fathom its act of creation without him. And even so, there is harmony in the subtext.

I am purposeless without that of which I have identified within myself, and those who ignore my speech is, in turn, ignoring an internalized fragment that only I am responsible for. If I am to be denied, then of whom can I rely upon? If not myself, if not those before me, then whom? Is there any chance for a larger reality, or even a continuation of a reality at this size? Who else is mad? Who else has problems they’re unable to muster? What is it about what I’m saying that makes these people so angry? Is it too undercooked and over-displayed? Is it exploitation, crowdsploitation, angersploitation that withers until the rioting begins? Or does it grow to an overwhelming crescendo, allowing only brief glimpses of fatigue and pause? If that is so, then of what is this ill-fated night the finale? If it all ends here, where did it first begin? I will never be allowed to know for myself, so I can only allow myself a moment to wonder. And just like that, I’m in business.

KK: Looooooooooooove it!"