Idiot Savant by I Am Hologram is a skeleton key to the human psyche, a collection of acoustic whispers that unravel into delicate thunder. Every chord feels like a question, and every lyric hangs like an unfinished sentence in the space between breaths. Stripped of ornamentation, the album bares the artist’s marrow, exposing emotions that resonate as both haunting and achingly familiar.

The title itself, Idiot Savant, is a paradox: brilliance entangled with imperfection, clarity wrestling with chaos. It mirrors the album’s ethos—a dive headfirst into the fractures of the human condition, revealing the beauty in jagged edges. Tracks like “Uncomfortably Numb” confront themes of isolation and self-reflection, while “Dope Sick” captures the desperate pull of addiction with vivid, cutting imagery: “I feel you in the back of my throat, it’s a mildew I cannot explain.”

“Derelict Starchild” stands as an existential portrait, peeling back layers of identity and faith: “Faith is an ugly thing to taste when the mirror’s rearranged.” Meanwhile, “My Scorpio Heart” and “Stereo Muse Queen” delve into the complexities of love and longing, each lyric painting a vivid emotional landscape that is as beautiful as it is fragile.

There’s no escape in this album—only surrender. Each track is a journal entry, unspooling like letters from a version of yourself you’ve tried to forget. The sparseness of the arrangements creates a vacuum, drawing in your doubts, dreams, and unspoken truths. This isn’t music designed to comfort; it’s an invitation to confront the contradictions that make you human.

By the time you reach “Saint Christopher,” a sprawling six-minute meditation on redemption and self-discovery, you’ve been through the ringer—left wondering whether you’ve found answers or just uncovered better questions. Its gentle resolve offers a fragile sense of closure, like holding a warm stone in a storm.

Idiot Savant isn’t just an album; it’s a reckoning. A cracked window into the world, it invites you to stare into the imperfections and find something beautiful within them. To listen is to confront yourself and emerge, perhaps, a little less afraid of what you’ll discover. This is I Am Hologram in their truest form: unapologetic, unwavering, and quietly transformative.

 A Real Horrorshow Symphony: A Review of Idiot Savant

By Ishmael Nihil

Oh my brothers and only friends, let me tell you of this bolshy choral work, Idiot Savant, by the devotchka-loving chelloveck known as I Am Hologram. It’s not a mere album, oh no, but a malenky bit of the old ultra-sonic—a sonic tolchock right to the gulliver. A journey through the gloopy, sinny recesses of a veshch’s soul, all lit up with real horrorshow strumming and dratsing melodies.

The opening, "115," is a quiet bit of the old in-out-in-out, a tease of what’s to come. Just a few bars of guitar that viddy like the slow rising of the blood-red dawn. But then the razrez comes sharp and heavy with "Uncomfortably Numb," a tune that slices like a nozh into the heart of the lonely. “Where has your solitude gotten you?” sings our droog Hologram, his goloss trembling with the weight of it all, like he’s lost his way in the malenky dark.

And oh, my droogs, "Dope Sick" is where the milk-plus turns sour. The guitars drip with the veshch’s pain, each chord a sobbing pleat for relief. You can almost slooshy the veins crying out, the shivers rattling his bones. A real veck’s lament, this one—a true mesto for those who’ve danced with the old devil’s candy.

"Derelict Starchild" lifts us from the muck, if only to toss us into the cosmic horrorshow. Here’s where the artist’s goloss takes on a veshch-like otherworldliness, crooning tales of nervous cyborgs and fallen star-children. It’s a platch of a track, full of longing for a home that doesn’t exist.

When you slooshy "Blood On the Pavement," you feel the crunch of boots in the snow, the drip-drip of red into the cracks. It’s urban malenky life, my brothers, where the streets are alive with the ghostly echoes of violence. The guitar lines are jagged, sharp like a britva, and the words linger like cigarette smoke in a darkened underpass.

And then, oh my droogies, the interludes. Those precious bits of quiet madness scattered through the disc like crumbs for the curious. Each one a tiny rabbit hole into the mind of this chelloveck, pulling you further into his world.

"My Scorpio Heart" is a love letter scrawled in the blood of obsession. A goloss heavy with heartbreak, a melody that sways like a drunk devotchka at the end of the bar. It’s beautiful, but oh so very cracked, like a mirror showing too much truth.

"Not Today Satan, Not Today" brings the veshch’s fight to the front. It’s the anthem of the weary, the song of a chelloveck done with all the sinny games. The lyrics jab and poke like a knife-fight, but there’s hope here, buried under the scars.

And then, as the clock ticks down, we reach "Saint Christopher." Oh, my brothers, this is the epic of the piece, the crescendo of all his malenky woes and wonders. The guitars swell, the goloss rises, and you feel the weight of it all—this life, this journey, this attempt to find peace in a world that’s all bog and no sky.

Idiot Savant isn’t just music, my brothers; it’s a veshch you feel in your gut, a journey you don’t come back from the same. It’s raw and it’s real, and it leaves you feeling a bit like Alex after his bit of the old Ludovico treatment—dizzy, drained, but alive with the truth of it all. A horrorshow masterpiece, my droogies. Give it a sloosh and viddy for yourselves.

Rating: 10/10 real horrorshow tolchocks.