Raised, trapped, under the veil of that certain kind of frightening, that lifeless, artistic miasma so familiar to his kinsfolk of rural, south-easterly Britain - like the pea-soupers known by Victorian Londoners before him - E.J. Fox is, one may say, a man of his times. The early 21st Century will never have the ideal conditions for the life of art: there's simply too much fatalistic hopelessness kicking around. In contravention of the standard response to such issues, popularized by his peers, Fox has grown, rather than catatonic or obsessive, to play God: intellectualizing the arbitrary absurdity of Life and The Universe by creating and occupying a personal microcosm, all through the music stylings born from (perhaps) too many hours of The Wall.
Will yourself! If it's escapism you're after why not explore the wondrous existential honeycomb of E.J. Fox's over-active creativity? Who knows, you may learn a thing or two. It's a funny thing: in reaction to external stimuli and the forces that created him, Fox subconsciously undermines all-that-came-before; how in an introspective response to an illogical world, Fox inadvertently opens up and makes possible a greater level of extroverted social cohesion. How Freudian, how Jungian!

- Thomas Edward James Pernet

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