I've always been a great admirer of Deep Rooted's inventive sonic madness through the years. So I approached his latest effort expecting the same mad quality that has blessed his countless past "projects." Little did I know that listening to "Score" would elevate my expectations as fecund, college-aged ovaries elevate my blood pressure. A lifetime of artistic endeavors in the combined worlds of music and love has culminated to form this opus that moves its listeners to horizontal positions of appreciation.

A professional must exude his or her expertise in a fashion that not only promotes one's own interests and standing, but acts as a guide to both the uneducated and those peers who respect the practice of their common occupation. Think of the professional as a driver and his or her audience as passengers. A professional of love will provide an interactive highway of possibilities for the passengers, taking them on a ride through the perceived roles in the direction of the movement. But keep in mind this is no casual wandering; the professional always knows the exact destination. The professional maintains subtle control as the passenger-cum-virtual-driver imagines easing his or her way through meandering passages of ecstasy. A professional of music performs much as the professional of love might. A professional of music will provide the listener with an aesthetic. So, while the listener has complete volition to do anything as they listen to the music, the professional's aesthetic dictates that the listener does exactly what the professional intends the listener to do with that piece.

By combining his aptitude in the art of love and the art of music into one opus, Deep Rooted provides us with a guide through an orgasmic journey of love while viewing window panoramas painted by his stylized brush strokes of sound.

So, let's ride. Feel the excitement, the anticipation, build in the beginning movement "Drinks." Imagine yourself walking into a dimly lit lounge. Your eyes meet the curvature of tight, sinewy buttocks. The waft of your object's pheromones tickles your senses. You are laced in the object's essence. You compliment the mood with enough alcohol to soften the edges, thin your blood and increase your pulse. The conversation is rambling, meaningless. But, the light laughter, pursed lips, and subtle seat-shifting takes you deeper.

Hand brushes thigh, brushes hand. Pinkies lay next to one another on the bar like two naked figures: warm, comfortable. You lean into the crook of your their shoulder and whisper dirty nothings. You receive approval by their closed eyes and wry smile. It's on.

You leave the lounge, down the elevator. Slowly you press your bodies against one another. You're closed in a four-by-four area as your object backs into the corner beckoning you closer. "I'll show you how, teach you how," you whisper, your hand guiding their hands over your genitalia with soft, restrained movement. "Foreplay" has begun as the music accentuates the importance of this movement's patient, teasing namesake. Your breath could not feel warmer over your object's mouth: half opened, breathless. The whispers blend into the music and your object only feels the reverberations of the consonance of your speech bounce from your lips, until you both give into a collective rhythm.

The elevator door opens to your floor. The magnetic forces of ambition and expectation pull you toward your room. You are both spun swiftly through hallways as everything around you dissolves into traces of light and distorted shapes that limn the object of your focus. As your mouths press against each other, the connection seems seamlessly connected, yet still separate. "Foreplay" pulls you deeper.

With one hand entrenched in a milky-wet crevice and the other turning the doorknob, you pirouette to the bed on the axis of the cavalier's leather sole, frictionless against the nylon carpet, with the occupied arm providing force and direction. You both land gracefully on cotton sheets, as if this were some practiced adagio of lust that simultaneously appears natural and virgin. Buttons slip from eyelets as if they themselves were restive in their former positions. Soft belly kisses forebear their inevitable path. Your nose swipes over the tangy musk of your object's rectum. Your mouth falls over the whole of your object's genitalia with a warm welcome of tongue and slaver.

The music builds passionately into the aptly named "Coitus." Our guide has mastered every maneuver with the ease of experience. It is as if the "Soundtrack" has determined this direction. You are sent teetering on the edge of the most innate anticipation. Inhibitions slowly peel away. The pace quickens and the driving beat is simulated in your pelvis, one rubbing against the other. The dark mood of the movement hints to the hidden possibilities of the accompanying action. The head of the penis protrudes from under the fabric, meeting the clitoris like two faces were closing in on their first kiss. Finding its way back home, the penis glides effortlessly, yet determinedly, deep into the sweet, sticky womb. You both lock your hips at the point of deepest insertion, rooted to one another in what seems the most natural state of life imaginable. You hang, suspended in time, nails digging into backs: pinches of reality in this proverbial dream. The music and your consciousness strip themselves of all layers as the steady, raw drumbeat takes over in syncopation to the rhythm of your retraction and return.

The bass line introduces, the horns herald, the coming of the "Climax." Fingers are thrust into your mouth pushing back your jaw. You bite down only to the point of making the fatty flesh vulnerable. Your back arches. The pain, signaled from your knees, elbows, buttocks, (whatever body part caught in a struggle with the unfriendly friction of the unforgiving, ignorant rigidity of the surrounding environs) dissipates from your psyche. Your entire being is focused on the mutual simultaneousness of the moment: the one time in all of humanity's interaction when two people are truly communicating, the only instance of absolute empathy, oneness.

The music reaches its closing movement in "Cigarettes." This is the time for reflection. The distorted drum line mocks the sound of crackling matches just lit, as the keyboard dreamily sets the mood. You have exasperated your energy and the only way to retain the feeling of the rushing blood and dizziness of your act is through the comforting, chemical influence of nicotine. The smoke lingers in the dry cracks of your swollen tongue, its earthy taste mixing with the salt of sweat and bittersweet sharpness of cum. Your object's head is nestled in the damp crook of your arm, blowing cool air over your nipple. Your eyelids grow weary as all the memories, thrills, regrets, and guilt of love wash over your consciousness till you are swept away into a deep, drunken sleep.

You won't always have "Soundtrack" in hand with stereo ready. Open yourself to it and you will, however, hear its dynamics, melody, intensity, and energy played over and over in your mind. Take this music and listen carefully. Let it carry you and compliment your life in the ways I have allowed it to do to me. The experience is always different, yet the destination is always clear.

--B. Richard Nasty