Bonjour and welcome to Part Deux of Flo’s Freaky French tape series. Feeling alone and insecure? Just kick back and let the warm analog sounds of this tape hug you snug like a cozy knit turtleneck sweater. Still feeling cold and exposed? You can put on this black beret, custom tailored for your oddly-shaped dome and hide that bald spot. Feeling peckish? Nosh on this croissant and fill that growing belly with more butter. Feeling dumb? This music will make you cultured as shit.

A weird, meandering trip to some strange places. You're excited to start out, but things get fouled up fast and by the end of Side A you're terribly confused to have ended up on popular radio circa 2009. Side B lets you know that the problem was that the handful of mushrooms you choked down 40 minutes ago was maybe a little too much, and now you're in a kind-of-pretty-kind-of-frightening woodland trip, like that freaky scene in The Bear and you're the baby bear.

East Coast transplant in the post-Grunge Pacific Northwest. Sipping lattes, smoking the luscious reefer, you’re acclimating to the nu-culture just fine. While working at Kinko’s to subsidize your education, you start to realize that there is a whole world out there waiting for you to discover it. As you cautiously venture outside of your musical comfort zone, the baby steps you take pay off big. In a moment of stoned inspiration you throw it all on a tape and ship the good news to your Comrades back East.

Sink deep into the heart of manic seasonal depression. In this global warming biosphere, there is no beginning and there is no end. Just burrow downwards, one track at a time until you reach the core. Be sure to wear a mask. Be sure to wash your hands. Sanitize your genitals and crawl into the Earth’s melting womb.

In celebration of bad vibes during the worst of times, this Bud’s for you.

The title says it all. The Hills-have-yeux gallic farmer soaks up Anglo music with a rag and then throws the whole mess into his barnyard still, gets tanked on the results, and inter-dimensional outsider art is born. This is like what dog people probably imagine cat people think like.

The soundtrack to being a midnight janitor lost in time. It's always dark out, and you're totally alone with a vacuum cleaner on the 67th floor of a deserted high rise office building.

A dark, spooky take on enjoying yourself. Goth-positive. The world pretty much fucking sucks, but you'll be damned if you take it lying down.

The grimy soundtrack to your denimclad gang's adventures through the underbelly of a crumbling rust-belt city. Maybe you recently had to throw your murdered girlfriend's corpse into a trash compactor, maybe your newborn came out of the womb a twisted mass of flesh due to your agent orange exposure in 'nam, you're ready to waste a motherfucker in any case. You've got nowhere to run and nothing to lose.

Can you imagine walking into an isolated convenience store at an obscure hour? The person behind the counter is a secret taste genius and is playing the best music you've never heard (or maybe you feel like you must have heard it, but can't remember what it is). You're trying to play it cool but have literally never had more of a thrill pretending to shop for smoked peanuts or sno-balls or whatever and you're lingering way longer than is normal. You're a creep. Who cares about gender or orientation, you're in love with this person.

This tape is about that feeling of enjoying being sad. Like, maybe you're thinking about the past and romanticizing it, or imagining how other people are probably doing really fun shit and you're by yourself. But you're enjoying the feeling also, so you're not really sad, It's kinda more like wistful and you feel a little superior because enjoying darker moods seems like some shit only smart cool motherfuckers can do.

Sounds like slowly sobering up over the course of a long walk home in the dark. Brain fuzz, emotional ups and downs, and being alone with your thoughts. Big brain mix of genres too, not for casuals.